Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

The space was lit by torches. Dark clouds scudded over the swaying branches above. Maximus realized that Naulobates was not alone. At one end of his long couch sat Andonnoballus and a boy of about seven or eight. Looking at the opposite line of chairs, Maximus saw Peregrim, the nephew of the Urugundi King Hisarna. More startling, next to him was Aruth. The Herul looked thin and badly sunburnt. Either Naulobates had shown uncharacteristic clemency, or Aruth had survived nine nights and days in the cage.

A servant poured two cups of wine in front of Naulobates, and took one to Ballista. The First-Brother and Ballista drank to each other. The next cup went to Peregrim, the third to Castricius. There were thirty men on the chairs. It went on a long time. The cups passed out glittered silver in the wavering torchlight. Naulobates’ was plain wood. Each guest downed his; Naulobates merely sipped.

The toasts concluded, tables were set up and food put out. Again, Naulobates paraded his unconcern for luxury. On the wooden platter placed in front of him were some simple cuts of cooked meat. The guests ate elaborate dishes off heavy silver. The cooks had to be captives from Greece, probably from Ionia.

Maximus asked Pharas who the boy with Andonnoballus was. The Herul looked uncomfortable, and leant close to reply.

‘It is a prophecy the First-Brother received on one of his daemon journeys. He was told that after he had sacked the city of Athens he would relinquish his rule of the Heruli when he was translated simultaneously into both master and slave. Andonnoballus would succeed him. When the latter fate befell Andonnoballus, the boy Odoacer would be the chosen, who would lead the Heruli to a better place.’

‘What better place?’

Pharas shrugged.

‘And Naulobates believes this?’ asked Maximus.

‘Naulobates believes this,’ Pharas said in a flat voice.

‘And you?’

‘The First-Brother has the mandate of the deity.’

After the first course, there was another round of toasts. Maximus was feeling much better. He had no problem at all downing his cup to the First-Brother.

After the second course, there was no more food except nuts, cheese and dried fruits. There was a lot more drink. Maximus was warming to the occasion.

A bard stood in the middle and sang a song of the glorious victory of the Heruli over the Alani. The singer concentrated on the martial virtues of Naulobates, but included graceful compliments to his ally Hisarna of the Urugundi, and to Ballista and Tarchon. The slaying of the evil Saurmag was a good verse. The audience was rapt. Some Heruli were moved to tears. Castricius and Hippothous, not knowing the language of Germania, appeared less involved. The little Roman had his eyes on the trees above, lost in thought. The Greek had his eyes fixed on a young Herul opposite. It had better be physiognomy, not lust, Maximus thought.

The song ended with a flourish. Naulobates took a thick gold band from his arm, and gave it to the bard. Then he stood, and the only sounds were the splutter of the torches and the snap of the screens.

‘We have won a great victory, but not yet the war. Like a viper, Safrax has slithered back to his nest. We killed many, and many of his riders, but many remain. The Croucasis will see hard fighting. In the mountains, the great-hearted infantry of the Urugundi will come into their own.’

The Heruli cheered and yipped. Peregrim, although rather flushed, made a face full of dignity.

‘But tonight is a celebration.’ Naulobates paused, looking out over the hangings at the racing blackness of the night.

When he resumed, his voice was thoughtful. ‘A man can have only three blood-brothers. It is our law. I have Uligagus, Pharas and Aruth.’

Naulobates gestured. Three armour bearers stepped into the middle. They carried a spear, a buckler and a gorytus bound in white leather. Behind them a man led in a great red horse. At the noise, the stallion rolled its eyes and tossed its head.

‘It is permitted a man to have many sons-in-arms. Tonight I will give the honour to Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, son of Starkad.’

Maximus, along with everyone else, looked at Ballista. The Angle’s face was completely without expression. Ballista got to his feet. He went to the stallion and, with slow, open movements, he took its bridle. Speaking softly, with no hurry, he calmed the animal. Eventually, he brought his face close to its nostrils, talking all the time he needed, letting his breath mingle with that of the horse.

Returning the bridle to the handler, Ballista stepped before Naulobates. He buckled the bowcase to his belt, the small shield to his arm, and took the spear in his hand.

Ballista got to one knee. He placed the spear upright in front, both hands around its shaft.

Naulobates cupped his hands over those of Ballista. ‘From this moment, you are my son. Wherever you go, my daemon Brachus will watch over you.’

The horse was led out, and Ballista took his seat again.

Naulobates had not finished. A servant appeared, carrying a cup that flashed gold.

‘Tarchon of Suania, you killed Saurmag, the would-be tyrant of your people, the crooked advisor of Safrax. When you drink, all will remember your valour on that day. It is a custom of our people.’

Tarchon stood and took the cup. Now Maximus could see it was a gilded skull — the skull of Saurmag.

Tarchon was beaming with straightforward pleasure.

Naulobates turned to Ballista and smiled. ‘Your gorytus is bound in his skin.’

Ballista looked down at the thing on his hip. When he looked up, again no emotion was to be read on his face.

Later, much later, the Romans staggered back to their quarters. Everyone disappeared to their tents. Maximus did not. The blood was pounding in his head. He stood, leaning on the spear Ballista had planted, letting the cool wind play over him. Soon, he could hear the other three snoring inside his tent.

Maximus raked the ashes off the cook fire, exposing its glowing heart. He sat, cross-legged, by it and drew two knives from his boots. With exaggerated care, he fished out a bag, and put some of the cannabis on the flat of one blade. He held it down with the other blade. He held the daggers in the heat, then hunched over, inhaled the aromatic smoke. He repeated it, until his head was light, buzzing.

The wind fretted at the ropes of the tent, tugged clusters of sparks from the fire. Up above, glimpsed between the clouds, the moon continued its near-eternal flight from the wolf Hati. Maximus laughed, recalling the very different reactions of Ballista and Tarchon to their grizzly gifts. Soon, they would be gone from this mad place.

A noise — not the wind — made Maximus turn. He half overbalanced. A figure was approaching; tall, spectral, only part of this world.

Maximus got to his feet unsteadily.

Hippothous moved as if in a trance. The Greek’s face was white, immobile.

‘The horror,’ Hippothous said, ‘the horror.’

Maximus had a knife in each hand.

Hippothous took a step forward.

‘What?’ Maximus said.

Hippothous started, as if realizing where he was.

‘What?’

‘The Heruli… I found them. They were…’

‘What?’

Hippothous balled his fist, thumb between index and middle finger, to avert evil.

Maximus noted the Greek’s other hand was also empty.

‘Pharas was there, Andonnoballus too. They were…’ Hippothous struggled for the right words. ‘They were fucking a donkey. They laughed when they saw me; said it was the custom of the Rosomoni.’

A moment’s pause, and Maximus started to laugh. After a time, he found he could not stop. The Heruli were not as other men.

Water was slopping from the Fountain of Trajan, running down the street. He stood in the Sacred Way of Ephesus, irresolute, afraid. Above, swallows darted, their wings flashing in the sun. There was a single line of cloud, straight as if drawn by a pencil.