The Amber Road (34 page)

Away to Gallienus’s left, the Roman legionaries of both sides were more circumspect. The big shields swept down, the men jostled further apart to allow them to wield their weapons. They exchanged javelins, drew their swords and then both sides charged. The clash echoed back from the hillsides. The advantage of the slope on the rebel side and the greater numbers on the imperial cancelled each other out. But it was an equilibrium purchased with men’s lives.

As the wings engaged, Legio III in the middle of the rebel line came to a standstill. There were perhaps thirty paces between it and the stationary centre of the imperial army. Gallienus stared at the rebel eagle, willing it to move. ‘
Hercules, Saviour …
’ He prayed desperately, mouthing the words aloud, unconcerned if mortals overheard. Deliberately, the eagle inclined forward.
By all the gods, no
. The eagle tipped further, swept right down to the ground. All the other standards followed. The legionaries put down their shields, reversed their swords, raised their right arms in salute.

‘
Ave Imperator
Gallienus!’ The men of Legio III chanted his name.
Imperator
Gallienus. It had worked. The deep-laid plot had worked. Venutus had achieved what he had claimed. The blandishments of gold had won over the spendthrift Spaniard Bonosus, and he in turn had brought his legion back to its right and proper allegiance.

Enfolded in hot battle, the men on the wings fought on, unaware of events in the centre. Things were different for the Raetian militia. Seeing themselves betrayed, as one they turned and sought safety in flight. The auxiliary archers, far from shooting them down, looked to get away first.

Gallienus looked up the valley, beyond the fleeing mob. The standards above the horsemen were turning, moving away. Simplicinius Genialis was enough of a commander to see the day was lost. The cavalry
alae
began to canter back towards the baggage. They would get through, but it would be difficult for the thousands on foot. Their numbers would hinder them, the carts and tents get in their way, and the hills on the right came round close to those on the left, leaving but a narrow passage.

‘Sound the recall,’ Gallienus said to the
bucinator.

The call was picked up across the valley.

On either wing the combatants stepped apart. Tacitus could administer the
sacramentum
to the legionaries from Germania Superior on the left. Proculus could do the same to the Angles on the right.

Gallienus handed back the shield, sheathed his sword. He tried to think of an epigrammatic saying suitable to the moment of success; something modest, stern but memorable. Nothing came. He did not care. He had won. He had proved to himself he did not need divine aid. Why should he? Was he not worshipped as a god himself? In time, he would slough off his mortality, and take his place on Olympus.

A rider clattered up from the left. The men of Legio VIII Augusta and Legio XXII Primigenia had sworn the military oath to their rightful
Imperator.

Ordering just his German bodyguard to accompany him, Gallienus rode across to the right.

‘I give you joy of your victory,
Imperator
.’ Proculus saluted.

‘What is the delay?’

Proculus shrugged. ‘The barbarians are reluctant to give their oath. They are too stupid to see their position is hopeless.’

Gallienus looked out over the crests of the legionaries. A big Angle chieftain stood out in front. Standards flew over the wall of shields: a white horse on a green field, various
dracones
, one white, another red.

These were Ballista’s people. The big, middle-aged chieftain even looked like him. Gallienus knew some words of their language. But it was unbecoming for an emperor to use such a tongue. He spoke in Latin, slow and clear.

‘Your leader has fled. The battle is lost. Give me your
sacramentum
, and you will serve in my
comitatus
.’

The tall Angle replied in decent Latin. ‘We gave our oath to Postumus, not to Simplicinius Genialis. Postumus has our word and our treasure.’

Gallienus unlaced his helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Diplomacy should always be conducted with an appearance of confidence, and with an open hand. ‘Give me your word, and I will give you new treasure.’

‘We are not Alamanni. We do not break our word.’

Gallienus stilled his bodyguard Freki with a gesture. ‘I know the good faith of the Angles. I grew up with your
princeps
Ballista.’

At the name, the ranks muttered.

‘Ballista has served me for many years. Now, on my instructions, he travels to your homeland to bring your king and the peoples he rules back into my friendship. Swear your oath to me, and the Angles will be reunited.’

‘I must consult my
principes
.’ The warrior stepped back, and was surrounded by a group of mailed warriors, each as large as himself. They talked, low and earnest.

Gallienus sat his horse. It would not have been politic to tell these barbarians the truth, that Ballista was dead in the ruins of Olbia.

A different noble came out of their ranks. An older, grizzled man, his mail was clotted with blood.

‘You have not shown Ballista honour. We keep our word. We will leave this place.’ The chieftain moved back. The shields of the front ranks snapped together. The rest turned. Under the white horse banner and the white
draco
, they ran off towards their mounts. Those that remained beneath the red
draco
began to edge away.

For a moment, Gallienus was too angry to speak. A roar swelled up from the legionaries.

‘Kill them!’ Gallienus shouted. ‘Kill all of them, do not let one of them escape!’

XXIV

The Island of Hedinsey

Ballista walked down the gangplank. Maximus, Tarchon and Wada the Short followed him on to the dock; the rest remained on the
Warig
. He went up to the warriors. There were fifty of them, in full war gear. He did not recognize any of them. Under their helms, their eyes were unfriendly. Their spears were levelled. A dozen archers, bows drawn, stood off to one side, covering the ship. It was not quite the homecoming he had imagined.

A young warrior spoke the ritual challenge.

‘Strangers, you have steered your steep craft through the seaways, sought our coast. I see you are warriors, you are dressed for war. I must ask who you are. I will have your names now, and the names of your fathers, or further you shall not go.’

Ballista unlaced his helmet, took it off. ‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. It is with loyal and true intentions I have returned to Hedinsey. My bench-companions are from many lands; Romans and Olbians from the south, a Vandal, two Heathobards, a Rugian. Tarchon here is from Suania in the Caucasus, Muirtagh of the Long Road from Hibernia, Wada the Short is from the Harii.’

There was a stirring in the ranks, but the young warrior did not unbend. ‘If you are who you claim to be, I was a child when you left.’ He gestured.

An older warrior stepped forward, peered at the newcomer. Ballista peered back.

‘Ivar Horse-Prick.’

‘Dernhelm, you little fucker.’ Encumbered by shields and weapons, they embraced. ‘It is him, even uglier than when he left.’

A cheer came from the warriors. Not all joined in.

‘Why have you come?’ The young warrior’s tone was still unwelcoming.

Ballista looked at him measuringly. ‘I do not know you.’

‘I am Ceola, son of Godwine. The
atheling
Morcar has entrusted me with the defence of this shore. Your father is not here.’

‘I know that. If you will give me a horse, I will go to see my mother in Hlymdale. When I return, we will sail to Varinsey to see my father at Gudme.’

Ceola considered this. ‘Your men will remain here. They will cause no trouble, or you will answer for them. Ivar Horse-Prick will accompany you.’

Ballista and Ivar Horse-Prick rode knee to knee through the open, gently rolling countryside. The sun was warm on their backs. Cattle grazed in the meadows, the winter wheat was just showing green. Their path wound inland past wet depressions fringed with alder. The mounds of the burial ground loomed on the horizon. Ballista had recounted his long journey from Olbia to the Heathobards helping to repair the
Warig
, and two warriors of that people joining the crew. Nothing had happened in the final two days’ sailing to need comment.

‘It has always been the way,’ Ivar said. ‘Young warriors with a name to make want to follow a war leader of reputation.’

Ballista smiled. ‘Young Ceola did not seem in a hurry to join my hearth-troop.’

‘He is your brother’s man,’ Ivar said. ‘Your father is old; Morcar makes many appointments. Ceola is too young to be among the
duguth
. His father the
eorl
Godwine is a good man. You remember him?’

Ballista grunted.

Ivar Horse-Prick laughed. ‘I forgot. Godwine did not approve of you or Eadwulf Evil-Child. And he was jealous of Froda. We were all jealous of Froda.’

Men were working among the burial mounds. Ballista reined in to watch. The chamber was nearly finished. The long sides had been revetted with overlapping vertical planks, shored up by struts. The labourers were forming the short walls by fitting horizontal timbers behind the ends of the construction.

‘Heoroweard,’ said Ivar.

‘How?’

‘Of course, you would not know.’ Ivar shook his head. ‘At the Nerthus ceremony. Some Brondings, and a few Wylfings and Geats – Morcar said they should be searched, your brother Oslac and the priest argued against it – they had concealed knives. Paunch-Shaker died fighting. He will be in Valhalla.’

‘Who else?’ Ballista’s chest was very tight.

‘Two young warriors; you would not know them. A few others took wounds, Oslac among them – nothing serious. Two of the Brondings were taken alive.’

‘Was Kadlin there?’

Ivar gave him a sharp look. ‘Yes, she got to the boats.’ Ivar looked away. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘Her son Aethelgar fought well. Oslac’s boy is growing into a fine man.’

Ballista looked down into the grave. ‘I had hoped to see Heoroweard Paunch-Shaker this side of Asgard.’

As they came near Hlymdale, much was the same, as if the years had counted for nothing. Smoke rose from the halls. That of his father stood far the largest. They dismounted inside the stockade. Grooms led their horses to the stables. The piggeries still stood to the left; the thatch of their roofs slumped, as he remembered, lines of green moss growing across them where the ties ran. Swine snouted, busy in the sunshine. As in his childhood, the mud was flat, closely pocked by their sheds, rougher, more churned further out by the wattle fences.

‘Come,’ said Ivar Horse-Prick. ‘You have not travelled all this way to look at pigs.’

They walked up past the forge. There were new buildings, but, sensibly, none had encroached on the domain of the smith. The grass was springy under his boots, again as Ballista remembered. The wind whistled through the lime, beech and hazel of the wood backing the settlement.

The great hall of the
cyning
Isangrim was empty except for a couple of serving women. The lady was not expecting visitors. She was with her women in the weaving hall.

The day was mild, and the door was open. It threw a rectangle of bright light into the building. There was the click and shuffle of the looms; the smell of wool and charcoal. Ballista stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The women formed themselves in his vision from the gloom. They sat on their stools before the frames, their fingers paused as they regarded him.

His mother’s hair was grey. Otherwise, she looked unchanged. She sat, tall and stately among her women. A brooch gleamed with garnets and gold at her breast.

Ballista knelt before her, put his hands on her knees. ‘Mother.’

She put her hands over his. ‘Dernhelm.’

He looked up. Her face had more lines, yet was the same. Her eyes were moist, nevertheless she smiled calmly. His father had often said she was self-controlled beyond other women, far beyond his other wives. Ballista thought of his own wife. Julia had the same quality.

‘You are filthy from the road.’ She told one of the women to bring water. ‘How old are your sons now?’

Ballista had to think. ‘Isangrim has twelve winters, Dernhelm five.’

‘Do they look like your Roman wife?’

‘No, they are fair.’ Ballista felt like crying.

‘They are well?’

‘Yes, the last time I saw them.’

‘When was that?’

‘Two years ago, in Ephesus.’

His mother had to swallow, marshal herself before she could speak again. ‘It is hard to be far away from your children. You left your family safe?’

‘In Sicily – safe, the gods willing.’

‘The old Caledonian slave Calgacus?’

Ballista had to fight not to break down. ‘Dead. Killed last year.’

‘You avenged him?’

‘Not yet.’

The woman returned with a bowl and towel. Ballista washed his face and hands, and dried himself on the middle of the towel. His mother took it from him. ‘How uncouth you have become. Others will have to use this towel. You are not among the Romans now.’

Ballista acknowledged the mild rebuke with a dip of his head. He knew then how much he had changed.

‘You will be hungry,’ his mother said. ‘You always were. When you have eaten, we will talk.’

They ate in the great hall. Ivar Horse-Prick consumed an immoderate amount, even for a northerner. Ballista told his mother how her brother Heoden did, how things went among her people, the Harii. She admired Battle-Sun, her brother’s gift to his foster-son. Afterwards, Ballista and his mother retired to the privacy of his father’s chamber at the rear of the hall, upstairs under the eaves. There were different wall hangings, a couple of new chests. The rest was the same: the huge, dark-wood carved bed, some of his father’s favoured weapons. Ballista threw open the shutters, letting sunlight flood the room.