Prologue

I was born a cripple. My mother was the Heruli princess Ildiko, my father, I think, was Ellac the Hun, the firstborn son of the great khan, Attila. I grew up in Moravia on the Amber Road, the lands controlled by my grandsire Abdarakos, war leader of the feared Heruli. I was raised by Atakam the shaman, Sigizan the Hun and Leodis the Greek. When I was but ten summers old, the gods chose to change the course of my life. I was abducted from the lands of the Heruli and carried off to the faraway shores of the Island of Scandza, the lands of the Svear. By a miracle of the gods, my cripple foot healed. I lived with the Svear for six years and fell in love with a girl named Unni. An Isaurian, Trokondas, a refugee from the City of Constantine, taught me the way of the warrior. But my skill helped me naught when I was captured in a slave raid and taken back to the lands of my birth. Barely sixteen, I fought on the side of my people in the greatest battle of our age. Defeated, the remnants of our army scattered. I fell into the hands of Theodemir, the king of the Goths. But a Hun, Kursik, saved my life. We were captured by the men of the master of soldiers of Thrace, a general of the Eastern Roman Empire. This man, Zeno, also happened to be the cousin of my mentor, Trokondas. Zeno gave me refuge. Kursik and I accompanied the army back to its base at Hadrianople, the capital of the Diocese of Thrace. Zeno the Isaurian, consul of the Eastern Empire, and son-in-law of Emperor Leo, would decide my fate. Chapter 1 – Messenger (October 469 AD)

“The consul wishes to speak with the savage”, the tribune said in Latin, the official language of the East. The burly Isaurian guarding the entrance to the quarters of the master of soldiers studied us with undisguised contempt. His dark eyes narrowed with suspicion, and his knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip around the wood and iron haft of his bearded axe. I knew that these mountain men were a law unto themselves, loyal only to their own and the emperor. He eyed us for long, as if trying to find some measure of deceit in the officer’s words. The sinews rippled on his veined forearms – a clear indication that he contemplated violence. The tribune displayed his discomfort by swallowing nervously and licking his dry lips. “Wait”, the guard grunted in accented Greek and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. The tribune slowly sighed with relief. The Isaurian reappeared moments later. The bearded giant stepped to the side and nodded. The officer took a step forward, but the Isaurian placed his bear-like palm on the tribune’s chest, halting him in his tracks. “Only the Herulian will pass”, he growled. I entered the plush quarters of the consul. The hurried steps of the tribune faded down the hallway, then disappeared altogether as the guard gently closed the door behind me. Zeno, who was reclining on his couch, extended his hand to accept a proffered silver goblet from a pouring slave. He lifted the index finger of his left hand in a near imperceptible gesture and another rushed to give effect to his wish. The master of soldiers waited patiently until I held the brimming vessel in my hand, then waved the servants from the room. “Thracian wine”, he explained, savouring the aroma of the dark purple liquid. “Since the West has allowed the barbarians to overrun Gaul, this is the best we are able to source”, he sighed. He picked up an opened scroll bearing the intricate seal of the emperor of the East. “Do you know of a Hun called Dengizich?” he asked. “He is the second son of Attila, lord”, I replied. I mentioned not that the Hun king was my uncle. “I have heard you speak the tongue of the Huns”, he said. “But you do not look like a Hun and you bear the markings of the Heruli.” “I take after my mother, lord”, I answered. “It matters not”, he said, waving his hand in a sign of dismissal. “I have come to a decision.” Rather than to elaborate on my fate, he drank deeply. “I value the bond that you have with my kinsman, Trokondas”, he said, “but you must still prove your loyalty to me.” “I do not understand, lord”, I replied. “Good”, Zeno said nodding his approval. “A man who is not scared to admit to his shortcomings.” He drank again and continued. “The Huns under Dengizich are amassing north of the Danube. They have requested the emperor to allocate them a marketplace south of the river to trade for food and necessities. Their demands have been rejected, of course”, he concluded. I must have frowned then. “You have much to learn, Ragnar the Herulian”, Zeno sighed. “The Empire has no need of trade with the Huns. Why would the emperor allow them this indulgence? What benefit would he derive?” He smiled, drank again and continued. “My father-in-law and I are embroiled in a war”, he revealed. “The enemy is in our midst – it is the snake called Aspar.” I nodded, as Trokondas had told me how he had fled to Scandza to escape the wrath of the powerful General Aspar. “Much of Aspar’s support comes from the Goths living in the Diocese of Thrace. Their leader is a man called Theodoric the Squinter. His sister is married to Aspar.” A sly smile played on his lips. “The emperor wishes for Dengizich to bow the knee to him. Then he will allow the Huns to settle south of the Danube.” “The Huns are wolves, they cannot be tamed. If they are allowed into the Empire they will not live in peace with the Goths. They will raid Gothic farms and be a thorn in the side of Aspar and his henchman, the Squinter.” He wetted his throat and continued. “But there is a problem. The Roman generals to whom the defence of Thrace have been entrusted, are of Gothic descent. General Anagastes leads them, and he hates the Huns. I need someone whom I trust to take a message to Dengizich. That someone, Ragnar, is you.” He studied me intently while he spoke the words, no doubt trying to discern whether his trust was misplaced. “If you serve me well”, he continued, “you will be rewarded. I will accept you into the ranks of the excubitors. The men of Isauria will make you a man as hard as iron. You will be respected and feared. Your purse will bulge with gold.” Zeno was no fool. Again, he studied me while he spoke and must have noticed the lack of enthusiasm on my part. “And when the time is right”, he added, “I will send you north to bring my cousin home.” “I will serve you, lord”, I replied, and a hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth when he realised that he had found my weakness.

* * *

Kursik meticulously inspected his horn bow. Noticing no visible damage, he hooked the lower limb behind his ankle, grunted with effort, and slipped the loop of the bowstring into the notch. Three times the Hun pulled the string to his ear. Again he inspected the weapon for cracks while steering his horse with his knees. Finally, satisfied that the weapon was undamaged, he hung the strung bow over his shoulder. I took my bearded axe from its holder and felt the edge, which was still sharp enough to shave with. “It is good to care for you weapons as if they were your children, lord”, Kursik said while nodding his approval. “But you need to find a bow, lord”, he added. “A Hun needs a horn bow.” “I am a Heruli, Kursik”, I countered, and proudly gestured to the tattoos adorning my cheeks. My companion grunted with amusement. “None who has the blood of the Great Khan can be a Heruli, lord”, he stated as a fact. “You are still a Hun, lord.” I nodded, knowing that it was futile to argue. Kursik pointed towards the distant walls of Philippopolis. “We should not enter the city of the Romans”, he said. I tapped my saddlebag. “I carry the written orders of the master of soldiers of Thrace”, I replied. Kursik sneered. “The words of the Romans mean little”, he said, and spat in the road. “Better to put trust in your horse and your weapons, lord.” I lifted both my palms in surrender. “We will do as you wish, Kursik.” “It is a wise decision, lord”, he said. Following the advice of my companion, we skirted the walls of Philippopolis under cover of darkness. Leodis, my Greek tutor, told me that the Goths had sacked and burned the city two hundred years before, but it had since been restored. We made our way east along the Roman road and camped within the woods. Two days later we traversed the treacherous passes of the Haemus Mountains, passing into the province of Moesia. Small farms and minor settlements lined the Roman road leading north. There was little traffic, as it was close to the middle of winter. From time to time we passed peasants or traders on their way to some unknown destination. Most appeared to be of barbarian descent, which was confirmed when they greeted us in the tongue of the Goths. Kursik pointed to the surrounding lands. “Do you know why it is that the Romans have given this fertile land to the Goths?” I shrugged. “It is not the Roman way to give without receiving”, I said. A wolf-like grin split the Hun’s scarred face. “The Goths are here because the Romans fear the Huns. They hate the Goths as much, but they fear them less because they can be tamed, like mongrel dogs. The Romans have settled the Goths as a barrier between them and us. For years, Rome paid the Goths to fight in their armies, but the Goths are growing in power and they are again becoming a threat.” “I see no men of fighting age”, the Hun said when we were close to the city of Nicopolis. “The warriors must have gone north”, I replied. “They know that the Huns are on the far bank of the Danube. These lands will burn if the wolves are allowed to come south.” The Hun nodded his agreement, his eyes lingering on the peasant dwellings. There was no doubt in my mind that he longed to be part of such a raid. I changed the subject. “My father, Ellac, was killed by the Gepids on the eve of my birth”, I told Kursik. “My uncle Dengizich does not know of me.” “It will be best for all if you do not tell, lord”, he said. “If the king were to find out, maybe he will embrace you, lord, or mayhap he will take your head.” Chapter 2 – Unni

We travelled north at an easy pace. By afternoon, dark clouds gathered in the east and hurried towards us on the back of an icy wind. When dusk arrived the rain was close, so we sought cover within the woods at the side of the road. It was light enough to gather firewood, and before long I had a large pile of dry logs stacked close to the trunk of an ancient hornbeam. My companion managed to shoot two pheasants and a partridge. I started the fire while Kursik systematically plucked the birds. When the first orange flames appeared he burned the remaining fluff from the carcasses, cut off the heads and feet, and ripped out the entrails. I sharpened three green oak twigs and spitted the fowls next to the fire. While the birds slowly grilled in the searing heat, we sipped mead. “Reaching the northern bank will not be easy”, Kursik said. “Not only will we have to avoid the Gothic foederati, but we will also have to find the means to cross the River. If we manage to evade the Goths who fight for Rome, we might end up riddled with Hun arrows.” The Hun spoke true – our mission was fraught with risk. Later, after we had eaten our fill and retired to the furs, doubt started to gnaw at the back of my mind. Was I on a fool’s errand? Would I lose my life in an effort to please a man I owed naught? I longed for the time I had spent with Unni and the Svear. Why did I not just turn the head of my horse to the west and north and follow my heart? When I finally fell asleep, I had made up my mind. On the morrow I would go west, away from the den of vipers, and start my journey to return to Scandza. But the gods had other plans. I was woken from my sleep by the sound of flowing water. In the dim light provided by the glowing embers, I noticed that the Hun was fast asleep. I stood from my furs and walked the other way, deeper into the woods, towards the sound. Not thirty paces farther I came upon a stream. The dark, black water rushed over submerged rocks, foaming and gurgling into the distance. I stared at the water, perplexed, as I could not remember the stream being there. When I looked up again, I saw a beautiful girl standing on the opposite side of the stream. Unni smiled and reached out to me. I, too, extended my hand, but I could not reach her. I took two steps back, wanting to jump the stream, but she shook her head. “I will wait for you Ragnar”, she said, and a bright tear spilled down her cheek. “Do not struggle against the current.” She pointed in the direction of the flowing water. “Follow your destiny - it will bring you home.” I watched the tear fall into the water. When I looked up again, she was gone. I woke with a start when Kursik shook me by the shoulder. “Come, lord”, he said. “I have saddled your horse. We need to leave before the sun is up.” I nodded in response, my plans of the previous evening a distant memory. I felt content, knowing that Unni had somehow bridged the divide and given me a message. I would heed her words. I would not struggle against the current. We were close to the Danube and did not use the Roman road. We travelled north, keeping to the less used paths and greenways. By late morning we spied soldiers out on patrol. We watched from the shadows as they cantered down the road. The riders wore scale shirts with brown, undyed leather braccae and matching leather boots. They carried their broad- headed spears in their hands. Longswords hung from their belts and brightly coloured, patterned, round wooden shields were fastened to their saddles. They wore the red-crested open face iron helmets of the East Romans, and the red cloaks of the Empire fluttered behind them as they rode. The iron- studded leather strips of their skirts bounced in rhythm with the movement of the horses. But their physical appearance was more barbarian than Roman. Their beards were thick, braided in the way of the barbarians, while their unruly blonde hair hung to their shoulders. As they passed, I heard them speak in the tongue of the Goths. When they were gone the Hun spat in the dirt. “Traitors”, he growled. I kept my counsel, but it was clear that these men were veterans. The Romans used the Goths in their endless wars. The weak amongst them perished quickly, but the strong, skilled men who possessed cunning, survived. As veterans they were rewarded with land and they came home with purses filled with gold. They flourished, sired children, and again they were sent to war. The Romans had once laughed in their sleeves at the stupid barbarians, but unintentionally they had created a problem – a warrior race within their midst, a serpent in their bosom. Now the Goths were starting to flex their muscles and the Romans were waking up to their mistake. My sympathies lay not with the Goths. But neither did I pity the Romans. I was merely observing, learning. In my veins flowed the blood of the Huns, but I was a Heruli, never mind what Kursik thought. In any event, we continued our cautious advance. By late afternoon, close to the ford in the river near Novae, we came across the East Roman army of General Anagastes. Kursik pointed east, to the earthen walls in the distance. “We will perish if we attempt to cross the river so close to their camp. We have to go west.” I nodded, as his words were sound. We kept to the trees and made our way west. When the darkness was thick around us, we walked our horses across the open fields and entered the belt of trees and shrubs lining the bank of the Danube. We did not light a fire, but shared a partridge left over from the previous evening. When we were done, we rolled up in our furs underneath a large oak a few paces from the water’s edge. I was disturbed by the sounds of a man grunting with effort. The sound emanated from the river, but the water was obscured from view, shrouded by an early-morning mist. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and squinted into the fog. “Hee-hee”, a wheezy laugh echoed across the water, followed by a bout of coughing. I heard a sound from where Kursik slept and noticed that the Hun was awake, stringing his bow. “Hee-hee, I got you, I got you”, the voice said and I exchanged glances with the Hun. “It is a fisherman”, he whispered. “He will leave the river before it is light. We will see where he goes ashore, kill him, and take his boat.” I shook my head. “We are not brigands, Kursik”, I replied. “We will pay the man to ferry us across.” The Hun stared at me for long, his mouth agape. “He is a peasant, lord”, he said eventually. “It matters not if he dies.” I scowled. “We will not kill him”, I said, and could not help but hear the words of Trokondas, my Isaurian mentor, echo in my mind. “Ragnar, do not gamble your life on the intentions of a peasant.” He had taught me that the peasants were sheep with a duplicitous nature. But I chose to ignore his words. “We will pay him, Kursik”, I replied stubbornly. “If it matters not if he dies, then surely it matters not if he lives.” My companion unstrung his bow. “As you wish, lord.” Then the Hun scowled and added, “Your blood has been corrupted by your Greek mentor, lord. Do not heed the words of Greeks. They write words on scrolls, but words mean naught.” The Hun drew his sword, displaying the flawless, glinting blade. “This, lord, is what men understand. Your grandfather, the Great Khan, knew that, and he ruled the world without writing a single word on a scroll.” The mist slowly cleared and we followed the fisherman until he cautiously rowed ashore. I left my intimidating companion with the horses and went to make a deal with the peasant. Before I showed myself, I studied the man who was heaving with effort to pull his small boat onto the muddy riverbank. He carefully concealed the skiff within the undergrowth, then lifted a large river salmon from the bottom of the boat and slung it over his shoulder. The man smiled then, displaying a maw half-filled with yellow teeth. He was no doubt content with his catch. I emerged from the trees, ten paces from the peasant. He issued a screech, dropped the fish, and made to dart into the woods. I may have been taught mercy by Leodis, but I was still a warrior, although I was barely a man. “Run and die”, I shouted in the language of the Germani, and the man froze in his tracks, his wide eyes filled with fear. In that instant I pitied the fisherman and felt vindicated about my decision to let him live. “Meet me here at sunset”, I said. “I will pay you three silver coins for passage across the river. Do not fear, you will not be harmed.” The man nodded, the expression of fear morphing into a broad smile. “I will be here at sunset, kind lord.” He pointed to the fish. “Even this fish will not fetch me two silvers, lord. You are generous, lord.” I advanced towards the peasant and came to a halt a pace away, towering over the little man. “Do not disappoint me, fisherman”, I growled. He nodded vigorously and smiled again, then picked up his fish and walked back to the hovel he no doubt resided in. Chapter 3 – Prophecy

Needless to say that few words were exchanged between Kursik and me for the remainder of the day. “You could at least have purchased his catch, lord”, he reprimanded me. I scowled in reply, realising my mistake. By late afternoon we packed our belongings and strapped it to our saddles. We slowly walked the horses east, towards the place where the fisherman would be waiting. “I will pay the fisherman to care for the horses while we are away”, I said. “If you had put an arrow through his skull, who would have looked after the horses?” The Hun offered no reply. Three hundred paces from the meeting place, the Hun stopped. “Lord”, he sighed, “the peasant does not know of me. I will watch for mischief while you negotiate our passage. When you are in the boat I will join you.” I nodded, as I was in no mood to argue. The fisherman stood in the clearing next to the boat, nervously eyeing the surrounding woods. I watched in silence for long. I might have been merciful, but I was no fool. After watching him for at least an hour I showed myself and walked into the clearing. “I knew you would come, lord”, he said, holding out an open palm to accept the silver. I placed three silver coins in his dirty hand. He snatched it away and took a step back. Four warriors emerged from the mogshade. They were East Roman foederati, similar to the men we had spied the day before, wearing the red crests of the Romans. My hand went to my axe but I knew that there were too many. One of the men, wearing the garb of a Roman decurion, handed the peasant a leather purse. A broad smile split the fisherman’s face, which turned to a sneer when he looked my way. “Weak boy”, I heard him say. Less than a heartbeat later Kursik’s first arrow entered the neck of the decurion and the Goth stumbled backwards, falling into the boat. His second arrow split a skull, passing through an iron helmet. The third and fourth slammed into the torsos of the remaining two warriors, hurling them into the undergrowth. I had a score of my own to settle and cast my axe overhead, using both hands to add power to the throw. When the Hun appeared from the shadows, I nodded my appreciation. I walked towards the boat, placed my boot on the chest of the dead peasant, and extracted the razor-sharp blade of my bearded axe from where it was deeply lodged in his chest - the sneer of contempt forever frozen on his face. I pried the silver coins and the purse from the fisherman’s lifeless hands. “I am in your debt, Kursik”, I said. “You have saved my life twice over.” “Don’t call me lord again”, I added. “My name is Ragnar.” The Hun nodded absentmindedly, his attention focused on looting the other corpses. “I will become more of a Hun”, I said. “And less Greek”, and for the first time since I met him, the Hun smiled.

* * *

When we had loaded all our baggage into the boat, I was surprised to see Kursik tie the reins of the horses to the sternpost. “We will pull them along”, he said. “Without our weight they will easily reach the far bank.” A thick layer of morning fog screened us from view as we made our way across the Mother River, which was nearly five hundred paces wide. It took the best part of an hour before we ascended the northern bank. We pulled the boat onto the mud and hid it amongst brambles. While we waited for the exhausted horses to recover, the wind picked up in intensity and it started to snow. We unrolled our sheepskin cloaks and hung them around our shoulders. “How will we find the army of Dengizich?” I asked. “We will ride east, to their camp”, the Hun said. “They will find us. Pray to the gods that they allow us to live.” When the horses were rested, we saddled them and rode east along the greenway which followed the flow of the river, back in the direction of Novae, to where the horde of the Huns were camped. We did not have to wait long before we saw a band of horsemen approach from the east. Kursik dismounted and stood beside his horse. The Hun’s arms hung at his sides, his open palms facing forward – a sign of peaceful intent. I copied his actions. The lead riders reined in ten paces from us. Their ranks parted, allowing a warrior surrounded by guards to approach. He sat lightly in the saddle, controlling his magnificent black stallion with practised ease. Like the tack of his horse, the scales of his knee-length armour were plated with silver. Loose-fitting, embroidered red leggings were tucked into his pointed, green leather riding boots. His open face, conical iron helmet, with thick iron chain riveted to the rim, sported a plume of black horsehair. An ivory-hilted longsword encased in a jewel-encrusted scabbard hung from his broad, green leather belt. From the double-stitched leather bow case attached to his saddle, protruded a limb of a magnificent horn bow finished with thin silver wire. The eyes of Dengizich were golden yellow, and like his face, they carried no emotion. Kursik fell to his knees and pressed his forehead onto the dirt of the snow-covered road. I followed suit. For long, we kneeled in the road, expecting the worst. A faraway voice that sounded strangely familiar whispered in the tongue of the Huns. “He is the one we seek.” “Bring them to my tent when the sun sets”, a voice commanded. “No harm must come to them.” The sound of hooves striking dirt disappeared into the distance. “Rise”, a voice said. “Come, we will do as the king wishes.”

* * *

The tent of the king was erected in the centre of the Hun camp. We were escorted by the guards of Dengizich, weaving through the tents of the warriors. Many of the men did not carry the markings of the Huns. A guard noticed my curiosity. “Many Germani tribes have remained loyal to the blood of Attila. Goths, Gepids, even Scirii”, he said. We passed a man tending to his horse and I noticed that he bore the marks of the Heruli. “Even your kin”, the guard added. When the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the western horizon, we were ushered into the spacious tent of the king. As decorum required, we advanced two steps with our heads inclined, then prostrated ourselves before the king. A shrill cackle emanated from the far side of the tent, but we dared not rise. “If only you were this subservient when you were a boy”, said the familiar voice of Atakam the shaman. I risked a glimpse and realised that the king was not present. At the far side of the tent, Atakam reclined on a couch, sipping from a goblet. “Rise”, Atakam said, and Kursik and I awkwardly came to our feet. The shaman handed his goblet to a slave, walked closer, and embraced me. “It gladdens my heart to see you well, Ragnar”, he said, stroking the back of my head with his bony hand like one would do with a child. I grinned in return, suddenly feeling like a naughty boy. “We have been searching for you”, Atakam said. “Ever since that foolish Hun lost you on the battlefield.” “We?” I asked. “Leodis, Sigizan and Boarex”, he replied. “They are sick with worry.” “Kursik here has been keeping me alive”, I said and gestured towards the Hun. Atakam placed his hand on Kursik’s shoulder and the powerful Hun warrior visibly recoiled in fear. “You have done well, warrior”, he said and patted Kursik’s shoulder. “Is it really you, lord?” Kursik said, his voice heavy with reverence. “I have only seen glimpses of you, lord. You were the seer of the great khan, Attila. You are the one touched by the gods, the one who travels to the realm of Ulgin. Is it really you? People say that you died with Lord Ellac.” Just then the second son of the Great Khan walked into the tent. Again Kursik and I prostrated ourselves. “Rise”, Dengizich said. “Who are you?” the king asked Kursik. “I am Kursik, lord king”, he replied. “I am from the Bittugures tribe, loyal to Lord Ellac.” “Yet, here you stand while my brother, Ellac, is dead?” Kursik fell to his knees. “Our chief made peace with Theodemir of the Ostrogoths after the death of Lord Ellac”, he said. “We fought for the Goths, lord, until I met Lord Ragnar.” “He saved my life, lord”, I blurted out. Dengizich stared at the kneeling Kursik with eyes devoid of emotion. “For saving the life of my nephew, I will allow you to live, but I expect you to prove your loyalty to me”, the king growled. “You will join the Hun horde, warrior, but you will not serve with the Huns. You will fight side by side with the Goths who remained loyal to me. That should suit you, as you seem to enjoy the company of Goths.” “Go to your tent, Kursik”, Atakam interjected in an attempt to defuse the situation. “You are a true servant of Ulgin.” “I will do as you command, lord king”, Kursik said and hurried from the tent before the king changed his mind. Dengizich glowered at the shaman. “You dare gainsay me in front of my men? He is a traitor, a Hun who fought for the Goths. He is fortunate that I allowed him to live.” The amicable expression disappeared from the face of the shaman and his voice took on an eerie quality. “Do not confuse me with one who owes you homage, Dengizich. I am the messenger of Ulgin, not a servant of men.” “You prophesied that the Huns would perish, shaman”, the king growled. “You told Attila that his youngest son would become the father of a nation. Yet, where is the greatness of my brother, Hernach? He does not even have the courage to join me on campaign?” “I am a god-messenger”, Atakam said, his voice as cold as ice. “I am no kingmaker. I never mentioned the name of Hernach. I said that the Khan’s youngest son would be the father of a nation. A great nation, whose glory will one day surpass that of the Huns.” The Hun king stared back at Atakam. His gaze settled on me and a frown creased his brow. Then he seemed to relax and he slumped onto the couch, holding out his vessel. A slave filled it with wine. “I will not waste my time arguing with you, Atakam”, he said. “Nor will I waste my time trying to unravel the will of the gods. If I knew not that you were god-touched, I would have taken your head. But I know that you commune with the spirits, old man, so I will humour you.” From outside, I could hear the sound of the roaring wind and I knew the storm was growing in intensity. The tent shook as the gale tested the strength of the ropes. “I will retire to my tent”, Atakam said. “I am an old man and I need my sleep.” The shaman took me by the arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “It is time to leave.” “I have a message for the king”, I whispered. “He will not listen”, Atakam growled, but I stood rooted to the spot. “Be quick then”, he sighed. I inclined my head to Dengizich. “Lord, I bear a message from the emperor of the East.” The king narrowed his eyes. “How come you carry a message from the emperor?” he asked. “It is a long story lord”, I replied. “Lord Tarasis, his master of soldiers, has sent me.” “Speak then, boy”, he growled. “The emperor will give you the land you seek across the river, lord, on condition that you bend the knee to him”, I said. “Do not think you can insult me just because you are my kin”, Dengizich sneered. “Go, before I lose my temper.” I received an ‘I told you so’ look from the shaman. Before we ducked through the opening, Atakam glanced over his shoulder. “Farewell Dengizich”, he said. “I know you will cross the river soon.” The second son of Attila turned white in the face, but then he seemed to relax. “I know, shaman”, he said. “This storm will cause the river to freeze over. Any fool can see that. Two days from now, we will cross.” Atakam offered no reply, but ducked from the tent, all but dragging me along behind him. Chapter 4 – Asbadus (November 469AD)

“Go back to that nest of vipers?” Leodis asked. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” “His mind must have been addled when he fell from his horse”, Sigizan suggested. “It’s a girl”, Boarex stated. “Deny that I speak the truth”, he challenged me. Atakam watched me intently, but he said naught. I held up my hand for silence. “I will go where the gods take me”, I said. “I will not go home with you. I will not run from difficulties.” “See, it is a girl”, Boarex said. I scowled in reply. “Ragnar speaks true”, Atakam said, which drew frowns from Leodis and the two Huns. “We must allow him to follow his ordained path. Only a fool defies the will of the gods.” Unsurprisingly none argued the point. “What will happen now?” I asked. “Dengizich lacks the wisdom of his father”, Atakam said. “Neither does he heed the warning of the gods. He will cross the frozen Danube and raid the lands of the Roman Goths.” “The Gothic general who commands the frontier army of the East Romans is called Anagastes. He despises the Huns”, Leodis said. “He is an ally of the one they call Aspar. He will try to annihilate the Huns, no matter the wishes of Emperor Leo.” “So where does your path lead, Ragnar?” Sigizan asked. “What will you do? Now that you have done your duty and delivered the message to the king of the Huns.” “It is simple”, I said. “I will return to Hadrianople, to Zeno the Isaurian. More, I cannot do.” “Then I will join you, Ragnar”, Leodis sighed. “I know not the way of the bow like these Huns”, he said, and gestured to Sigizan and Boarex, “but I know the way of deceit, the way of the Romans.” Early the next day, Leodis and I parted ways with Sigizan, Baorex and Atakam. They would journey back to the lands of my grandsire, Abdarakos. Kursik, as ordered by the king, remained with the horde of Dengizich.

* * *

Zeno smiled after I had recounted my story. “But lord”, I said, “Dengizich has spurned your offer. Surely it is not what you wished.” “Soon, I will send you to the City of Constantine where you will join the ranks of the excubitors”, the consul said, ignoring my question. I nodded, as that was what I wished. “You will give your oath to me and the emperor”, he added. “Yes, lord”, I confirmed. “In light of that, I will tell you the reason for your mission”, he said. “Neither I nor my father-in-law is a fool, Ragnar. We know the nature of the Huns. The wolf will never bow the knee to the sheep. Dengizich will never submit to the rule of the emperor.” He took a swallow from his silver goblet. “It was my wish to anger the Huns. I wished for them to cross the Danube and I wished for them to engage with the armies of Anagastes.” He took another sip. “Anagastes hates the Huns. He will either kill them all, or he will perish trying. That will weaken the Goths and it will weaken the position of Aspar. Do you think I care if the farms of the Goths are ravaged by the Huns?” He lifted his goblet in a toast. “Well done, young Ragnar. You have served me well.” “So when do I leave for the Great City?” I asked. “You will leave when I say so, my dear Ragnar”, Zeno said, and smiled again.

* * *

Leodis sat opposite me on a woollen carpet on the floor of the second- floor apartment we rented in Hadrianople. The modest living quarters were permeated by the smell of sheep, cattle and pigs, emanating from the livestock market next door. Bellows, bleats and grunts could be heard around the clock, but like my Greek tutor, I had grown accustomed to the noise. “I heard that Dengizich is ravaging Moesia”, he said. I nodded, as it was difficult not to notice the steady stream of refugees arriving at the gates of the city. “Have you heard from Consul Zeno?” the Greek asked. I shook my head in resignation as I had heard naught. Zeno had commanded that I remain within Hadrianople until the time was right for him to travel to Constantinople. Only then would I accompany him to join the ranks of the Isaurian guards in the Great City. Leodis nodded. “Zeno is waiting for the war to come to a point, like a snake patiently waiting for its prey. Only then will he devise a way to deal with the victor.” “Who is in the right?” I asked. “It matters not”, he answered, and waved away my question as if it were of no concern. “Rather decide whose side you wish to be on. Then ask the gods to give you the cunning to survive.” Just then we heard loud steps ascending the stairs, followed by an urgent knock on the door. “Ragnar the Herulian?” the centurion asked, peering over the shoulder of Leodis who had opened the door. “I am the one you seek”, I replied. “Come”, he said. “The consul is waiting.” I grabbed a woollen cloak from the hook behind the door and followed the officer down the steps. The centurion led the way, accompanied by two legionaries who flanked me as we made our way to the quarters of the consul. Boredom had forced Leodis and me to explore the city and although I did not know Hadrianople like the back of my hand, I was familiar with the layout. I became suspicious when I noticed that we had travelled two city blocks without turning north, in the direction of the military barracks. In turn I flashed a glance at the two soldiers flanking me and could not help but notice their distinct Gothic features. In silence I cursed myself for not strapping on my sword. The only weapon at my disposal was the dagger I habitually concealed in my boot. Moments later the centurion turned left and came to a halt thirty paces down the alley. The two soldiers fell back, I assumed to guard the entrance to the street. The centurion drew his sword and slowly walked towards me. I looked behind me and my fear was confirmed – the other two men had drawn their swords and were blocking my route of escape. I was trapped. “You chose the wrong side, boy”, the centurion sneered, and came at me with his blade. I plucked my dagger from my boot and barely managed to deflect the thrust to my head. I jumped back but could not afford a glance over my shoulder. The centurion took another step towards me, but then his gaze focused on something behind me and I heard the sound of a blade striking metal followed by a terrible scream. I used the opportunity to cast my dagger at the officer, but the throw was poor. Fortuna intervened and the hilt struck him in the face. He stumbled backwards and I peeked over my shoulder, in time to see a bearded axe cleave open the back of the remaining legionary. A hulking Isaurian walked towards me, blood dripping from the steel of his blade. The centurion, who had composed himself, glanced over his shoulder. But the alley was a dead-end, affording no route of escape. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his neck, and attacked the Isaurian. The Goth thrust at the midriff of the big man, a difficult blow to parry with an axe. But the Isaurian nimbly moved to the left and used the iron-reinforced shaft to deflect the blow. The head of the axe was closest to the ground and his left hand close to the butt. I recognized the move – one I had practised with Trokondas, and I knew what would come next. As soon as the sword had been deflected, the axe-man released his right hand from the haft. In a display of extraordinary skill and power, he rotated the axe with his left wrist. The head of the axe arced overhead in a blur of motion, and as his right hand took hold of the haft again, the razor-sharp steel blade split the helmet of the Goth, lodging deep in his skull. The big man braced his boot against the head of the prone centurion and removed his axe with a grunt. He carefully cleaned the blade with the dead man’s tunic then spat onto the cobbles. “Filthy Goth bastard”, he growled. Then he turned to face me, as if he noticed my presence for the first time. “The consul says Trokondas trained you?” I nodded. The Isaurian slapped his barrel chest with his open palm. “Good, he was the best of us”, he said. “What is your name, Isaurian?” I asked. “Asbadus”, he answered, and turned to leave. I stood rooted to the spot, not sure what was expected of me. The excubitor glanced over his shoulder. “Come, boy, the consul is waiting”, he growled. Chapter 5 – Anagastes (December 469 AD)

“I was forced to wait until they showed themselves”, Zeno said without offering an apology. He noticed my blank stare. “The men of Ardabur Aspar, the Goth general”, he said. He continued with a sigh. “What happens when you are on the field of battle and you look away, Ragnar? What happens to one who loses his focus, who allows himself to be distracted?” he asked, as if trying to explain something to a child. “You die”, I answered. “Like I have mentioned before, Ragnar”, he said, “we are in the midst of a battle. A battle for survival that is balanced on the edge of a blade. Trust no one. The agents of Aspar are amongst us. Be vigilant, else you will perish before you get to see the City of Constantine.” I nodded, ashamed of how easily I had been gulled by the Goths. The consul stood from his couch and placed his goblet on a side table. He walked over to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “Do not despair”, he said. “I will allow you an opportunity to redeem yourself. I have received news that the army of General Anagastes, the Gothic Roman general, has trapped the Huns in a valley in Moesia. It is a stalemate and Dengizich has sued for peace. He and his horde will surrender to the will of the emperor, but only if the Huns are granted land. I have to wait for the official missive from my father-in-law, the emperor. He will agree to the terms and he will allow the Huns to settle amongst the Goths in Moesia.” “I need you to get to Dengizich and warn him that he is not to believe the honeyed words of Anagastes”, Zeno said. “The general is a henchman of Aspar, and they will do their utmost to destroy the Huns before the missive of the emperor arrives – before the peace is official.”

* * * “I know you wish to see the girl again”, Leodis said. “Why do you not leave all the treachery behind and go to her then?” “The gods gave me a vision”, I said. “Are you sure it was not just a dream?” he asked. “I am not sure”, I said, which drew a frown from the Greek. “But still you wish to believe that it was a vision sent by the gods”, he said as a statement, not a question. “Yes”, I said, confirming his suspicion, and his frown morphed into a scowl. He pulled on the reins and his horse came to a halt. I fell in beside him. Leodis pointed to the faraway walls of Nicopolis ad Istrum. “We should make camp in the woods before it is dark”, he said. “Tomorrow we will ride east to find the army of Anagastes.” The following morning we woke early, ate a breakfast composed of cold fare, and donned our Roman military garb. In Leodis’s saddlebag was a scroll bearing the seal of the consul – a missive instructing Anagastes to allow us access to the camp of Dengizich. During the second hour of the afternoon we spied a column of horsemen. We did not try to evade them and soon all thirty-two riders of the turma encircled us, their spears levelled. “I am Walja, decurion in the frontier army of General Anagastes”, the leader said, and turned to face Leodis. “Who are you, old man?” The Gothic decurion paid me no heed as I was dressed as an ordinary cavalryman. “I am Tribune Leodis”, my Greek companion hissed in perfect Latin. “And you will show respect for my rank, decurion. I carry the orders of the master of soldiers of Thrace, meant only for the eyes of General Anagastes.” “You might be a tribune, Roman”, the Goth sneered, “but here, in the lands of the Goths, you are nothing.” I noticed his hand tighten around the haft of his spear, but heartbeats later he lowered his weapon and grounded the haft. “Come”, he said, “the general will decide your fate.” Leodis and I followed the horsemen who led us towards the distant hills in the east. “How can it be that they do not recognize the rank of tribune?” I asked Leodis. “They may be Goths, but they still fight for Rome, is it not?” “The friction between Aspar and Emperor Leo has driven a wedge between the Goths and the Romans in the army of the East”, he said. “Pray to the gods that the general is more accommodating.” The camp of the East Roman frontier army appeared Roman, not unlike the camp of the field army of Zeno which I had visited only months before. The tents were set out in orderly rows and the soldiers behaved much like the Romans did, but there was a nervous, unnatural edge to it all. I breathed deeply as we walked to the praetorium in the centre of the camp, unable to rid myself of the feeling that within heartbeats all could disintegrate into chaos. Leodis gave me a sidelong glance. “You sense it too?” he asked. “It is hard to miss”, I replied in a whisper. The quarters of the commander were decorated in the style of the Goths. Thick woollen carpets covered the floor, and exotic furs surrounded the hearth fire in the centre of the tent. Anagastes was tall and muscular. The Goth general was clad in iron scale armour which extended to below the groin. Underneath the scale he wore a finely woven, long-sleeved red tunic with embroidered edges. Around his broad shoulders hung a fur cloak made from the pelts of wolves. His brown leather braccae were tucked into soft riding boots of red leather. The general was deep in conversation with a man dressed in a similar fashion. The guest’s features differed greatly and it was clear that he was a Hun. After a handspan of heartbeats Anagastes turned his gaze to us. “I am told that you carry a message, tribune?” he said in Latin. Leodis inclined his head in a sign of respect and passed the scroll to the Goth general who reached out to accept the proffered missive. He broke the seal, his lips moving without accompanying sound as he read the words. “So”, he growled, “it is the intention of the emperor to agree to the terms of the Huns and grant them the land they have requested.” Leodis nodded. “It is my understanding as well, Lord General.” “It is not necessary to enter the den of the wolf, tribune”, he said, and gestured to the other man in the tent. “General Chelchal is a Hun, he can relay the good tidings to the barbarians.” “My orders state that I have to speak to the king of the Huns in person, Lord General”, Leodis said. “Consul Zeno will not tolerate my defiance of his instruction, lord.” “Suit yourself”, he said. “Tomorrow General Chelchal will join you when you go to speak with the Hun king. You will be summoned”, he concluded, and dismissed us with a wave of his hand. Leodis and I were shown to a spacious tent reserved for visiting officers. A warrior delivered freshly baked flatbread, soft cheese and strips of grilled meat. Although we were treated well, neither of us trusted the Goths. “There is treachery afoot”, Leodis whispered when we had retired to our furs. “I saw it in the way he spoke to General Chelchal. We must be vigilant.” Leodis was raised in the City of Constantine, the capital of treachery, and I took his words to heart. “What do we do?” I asked. “There is naught we can do apart from warning Dengizich”, he said. “But I will advise you to sleep with your hand on the hilt of your dagger, Ragnar.” Chapter 6 – Chelchal

The three of us walked into the Hun camp just before the middle hour of the day. General Chelchal led the way. Anagastes had requested passage for emissaries and Dengizich agreed. We waited outside the tent after Chelchal was ushered inside. He remained with the Hun king for long, eventually emerging an hour after midday. “The king awaits the scroll carrying the seal of the emperor”, Chelchal said. “He, too, wishes for the peace to become official. But his warriors are hungry. As a sign of goodwill, Lord Anagastes has agreed to send wagons with food. The provisions will be delivered before the sun sets.” The Hun motioned with his hand to the entrance of the tent. “King Dengizich awaits you”, he said. “Give him the words of Consul Zeno.” We waited for long, until eventually, we were summoned. The Hun king dismissed his servants when we arrived in his presence. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes carried the look of a man defeated. “It is done”, he said. “The Huns are a free people no more. The shaman saw the truth of it long ago.” Something came over me and I spoke out of turn. “In my veins flows the blood of the Great Khan, Uncle”, I said. “The blood of the Khan cannot be conquered.” I went down on one knee. “This is but a temporary setback”, I said. “I beg you, keep our people united. Look how strong the Goths have become. They were once defeated by the mighty legions of Rome and the Khan overran those who remained, but they are rising again. They grow in strength, and so, too, will the Huns.” The great Attila would have kept on fighting even if he alone remained, but his blood was not so strong within the veins of my uncle. Dengizich waved his hand in resignation. “General Chelchal has promised to feed my people. They are assembled in tribal groups. Each tribe will be given four wagons filled with flour, oil and meat.” “I beg you, lord”, Leodis said. “Let the warriors endure for a few more days until the missive from Emperor Leo arrives. Then the peace is official and Anagastes can do naught to undo it.” But Dengizich was a broken man and he waved away our concerns. “What harm could come from nourishing the warriors?” “I do not know, lord”, I replied, “but I do know that there is treachery afoot.” “You waste my time, boy”, he said. “I will endure your insolence no longer.” Dengizich, second son of Attila, gestured with his hand and his guards roughly escorted us from the tent. The oathsworn returned our weapons and sent us on our way. It was already dark outside. I noticed that the sprawling Hun camp had separated into groups, no doubt according to their tribal loyalties. Roman wagons, piled high with food and wine, were parked close to each group. “Let us go to find Kursik”, I said. “I will not leave him to his fate. Anagastes is brewing some evil. I wish to take Kursik with us when we leave this cursed place.” Dengizich had compelled Kursik to join the ranks of the Huns’ Gothic allies. It was intended as a punishment, but the gods truly work in strange ways. I could speak the language of the Huns, and soon we were directed to the Goth tribes loyal to Dengizich. They had been subdued by the forefathers of Attila and still fought in the army of the Huns, although they had retained their tribal identity. We found Kursik not long after, making his way from where the allied Goths were camped. “Ragnar”, he said. “You appear as if the gods themselves have sent you.” Kursik then told his tale. “While the food and wine were distributed, General Chelchal took the nobles aside”, he said. “I could not hear all, but I heard enough.” “Chelchal is a sheep wearing the clothes of a wolf. He looks like a Hun on the outside, but he is a traitor – he is a Goth on the inside.” I nodded, and Kursik, satisfied that we understood, continued. “Chelchal told the elders of the tribes that the Roman emperor had agreed to give land to the Huns”, Kursik explained. “Chelchal asked them what the Huns would do with the land, as Huns cared not for tilling the soil. When they could give him no answer, the Hun general said that they, the Goths, would be expected to farm and they would be required to provide food to the Huns. They would end up as the slaves of the Huns.” Leodis handed Kursik his wineskin. The warrior took a long swig then nodded his appreciation. “Chelchal reminded them of an ancient oath taken by their forebears – they had sworn that one day, they or their sons, would rid themselves of the yoke of the Huns.” Kursik stared at us, the lines of concern creasing his forehead discernible in the near-dark. “I know not what other words were spoken, because I left then. The words of Chelchal have angered the elders. Mark my words, there will be violence this night. The Goths will turn on their allies, there will be blood.” Kursik was no teller of tales and I felt a knot form in my belly. I realised then the cunning of Anagastes. He would turn the Scythians against one another. Aspar and his henchmen would not be blamed. “We need to inform the king”, Leodis whispered, his words filled with urgency. We were a mile away from the pavilion of the king. Our horses were still in the Roman camp, so we made our way back on foot, moving as fast as possible without arousing suspicion by breaking into a run. We were less than half a mile from Dengizich’s tent when we heard the first clash of blades. Although the sound was faint and far away, we knew that the camp was like a pyre of dry wood soaked in oil. A small spark could ignite it and within heartbeats it could turn into an inferno of violence. I removed the leather cover from the head of my bearded axe, Kursik grabbed his two hand axes from his belt and Leodis drew his sword. We exchanged glances, Kursik nodded, and we broke into a run, heading for the tent of the king. The time for caution had passed. We weaved through the sea of tents, sidestepping warriors who had been roused from their furs. Confused, the Huns stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of the sounds of battle sweeping like a wave through the camp. We finally emerged from among the tents, the lights around the distant pavilion of the king guiding us across the moonlit open ground. To the left of us we noticed a single line of Goth warriors, stealthily making their way towards the tent of Dengizich. Heartbeats later they became aware of our presence. Their leader, a hulking bull of a man clad in chain, gestured with his hand and three warriors split from the group. The three Goths formed a line, their round wooden shields protecting their torsos. Two carried spears. The warrior in the centre drew a longsword. My two companions and I matched their line, with Leodis facing the sword-wielding Goth. Their first few steps were measured, but when twenty paces separated us, they charged. “When men with shields come for you, do not lodge your blade in the wood”, I heard the words of Trokondas echo in my head. “Go for the face, but even better, strike at the legs.” I lunged forward and rotated my hips to the right, drawing the axe back as if to strike low at the base of a tree. The head of the axe accelerated through the air as I uncoiled the muscles in my back, wrists and hips. The haft of the weapon moved forward in an arc parallel to the ground. “When the blade sings, release it”, I heard my mentor whisper, and the haft of the bearded war-axe left my grip and spun towards the legs of the Goth, inches above the ground. The razor edge of the head struck the iron greave protecting the shin of the Goth. But the greave was designed to stop an angled, glancing, blow from a sword or a spear. The blade carried enormous force, split the iron plate, and lodged deep in the bone. The Goth tumbled to the ground, screaming. To my left, Leodis struggled to hold his own against his opponent. The big, heavily muscled Goth swung his great sword in an overhead arc and the Greek blocked it, but was driven to his knees by the tremendous force of the blow. Again the Goth swung overhead, his attention focused on overpowering my scrawny mentor. I stepped on the neck of my attacker, crushing his windpipe, and wrenched the blade from his shin. There was no time to swing overhead and I lunged, the head of the axe striking the Goth facing Leodis against the side of his iron helmet. He stumbled to the side and shook his head to steady himself. Leodis was no warrior, but as a youth he had received instruction from the best swordsmen in the empire. He lunged forward and his blade pierced the neck of the Goth, who dropped his sword and clutched at his punctured neck in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. I swung overhead and struck his helmet with the blunt end of the axe- head, putting the Goth out of his misery. I glanced to the right, just in time to see Kursik wrest his axe from the face of the third Goth. In the distance the group of twenty Goths neared the tent of the king. But the king’s oathsworn were no ignorant fools. From behind the tents, a group of mounted warriors burst from cover, led by none other than Dengizich himself. Their first volley of arrows felled half of the Goths, and as the Huns burst through their line, they laid into their attackers with swords and hand axes. Dengizich reined in when he noticed us. His gaze settled on the bodies of the Goths. “At least you are not a traitor, nephew”, he sneered. His eyes remained on me for a handspan of heartbeats. “Let us see if the shaman was right”, he said. Before I could offer a reply, he wheeled his horse around, no doubt to rally his men. I turned to my companions, not sure of what to do. “He abandoned you to your fate”, Kursik growled and spat in disgust. “Anagastes has won”, Leodis said. “Through treachery he has succeeded in turning the barbarians against one another. When they have destroyed themselves, he will strike and annihilate the rest.” From the darkness a man appeared. It was the hulking warrior who led the attack against the king. He was without a helmet and his face was smeared with blood. “What did you say, Greek?” the big man growled. “Anagastes and his henchman, Chelchal, have deceived you, Goth”, Kursik said. “The Huns were never the enemy. Your own kin, the Thracian Goths, do not wish for you to share their land. Your blood has been tainted by the blood of the Huns.” The moonlight illuminated the flexing sinews in his forearms as he tightened his grip on the haft of the axe. I readied myself. He seemed to notice me for the first time and a frown creased his forehead. “Are you of the Heruli, boy?” he asked. “What is it to you, Goth?” I replied. The man wiped the blood from his cheek, revealing the markings of the clan, similar to mine. “I am Beremud the Goth”, he said, and his hand touched his forehead in the way of the Heruli. “I am Ragnar, of the blood of Abdarakos”, I said. “Help us stop this madness, Beremud.” He stared at me for a long moment. Finally he nodded, turned around and jogged towards the sound of battle. “What do we do now?” Kursik asked. “We must try to stay alive”, Leodis said. He continued to stare in my direction, ignoring the Greek and waiting for me to reply. “We will try to leave this cursed place”, I said, and turned to the north. The Hun nodded and fell in behind me, followed by a scowling Leodis. Chapter 7 – The Via Militaris

When it was light enough to find our way, we came upon Dengizich and his oathsworn. Or rather, what remained of them. Their bodies were riddled with plumbatae, the lead-weighted armour-piercing darts used by the East Romans. The corpses had been stripped of everything of value. Dengizich, second son of the Great Khan, was no more and, quite literally, he had lost his head. From the early morning gloom, a warrior appeared. It was none other than Beremud. The big man sat down heavily on the rump of a dead horse, covering his face with his hands. “I managed to convince the elders that they had been deceived”, he said. “When we stopped fighting one another, the Romans attacked. Some of us managed to break free, but most of my brothers are food for the crows.” He sighed. “All that is left is to die with honour. The Romans will find us soon enough.” “Come, Beremud”, I said, “we will try to stay alive.” While I spoke with Beremud, Kursik inspected the corpses. “They were killed from a distance”, he said. “The Goths used plumbatae and the king would not have used his sword – he would have used his bow.” The corpses were scattered along a line of fifty paces. “The king carried a valuable sword”, he said. “It is a shame that it has fallen into the hands of the Goths.” He gestured for me to follow him as he walked along the line of the battle, pointing to the bloodstained and trampled grass. Suddenly Kursik rushed forward, bent at the waist, and retrieved a bow case from which protruded a limb of a horn bow decorated with silver. He held the case out to me, but I shook my head. “It is yours Kursik”, I said. “You found it.” “No”, he said. “It is the silver bow of the Great Khan. I do not have the blood of the Khan. The gods would curse me for all eternity for desecrating the bow. Only one who has the blood of the Khan must wield it.” I nodded, and strapped the bow to my saddle.

* * * Less than an hour later, we were intercepted by a turma of Anagastes’s horsemen who were scouring the battlefield for survivors. Kursik and Leodis drew their blades and Beremud and I gripped our axes. We stood shoulder to shoulder, resigned to die with honour. The decurion reined in and removed his helmet. It was none other than Walja, the Roman Goth. “Come”, he said, addressing Leodis. “General Anagastes has been searching for you, tribune. He fears for the safety of the emissaries of Consul Zeno.” We lowered our weapons. He pointed with his spear towards Kursik and Beremud. “The savages stay.” “They are my guards, decurion”, Leodis said. “Either we all come in peace or we all die together.” He seemed to consider my mentor’s words. Eventually his lips formed a smile although his eyes carried contempt. “Very well, tribune”, he said. “Follow me.” We mounted spare horses, and Walja escorted us through what remained of the Hun camp. Thousands had been killed. Very few Roman bodies could be seen. “It seems as if the barbarians turned on one another”, Walja said shaking his head. “Then, mad with bloodlust, they attacked us. We tried to hold them back, as General Anagastes is a peace-loving man. But it was to no avail.” None offered a reply. Walja and his men escorted us to the camp of the East Romans. Eventually Leodis and I were ushered into the presence of the general who was seated cross-legged in front of the hearth fire inside the praetorium. Anagastes nimbly came to his feet and put his arm around Leodis’s shoulders. “Emissary”, he said, “it is a relief to find you unharmed. It is a shame that that you were caught up in the internal strife of the Huns and their allies.” He forced a look of resignation. “Alas, the peace with the Huns that we all longed for is not to be.” He gestured with his hand and a slave appeared, carrying a clay jug. “My men found the body of the Hun king, murdered by his own people”, Anagastes said. He nodded and the slave dipped his hand into the jug and lifted the severed head of my uncle, Dengizich, from the wine and honey mixture. I averted my gaze. The slave stored the head on Anagastes’s signal. “It proves the duplicitous nature of these savages”, he said. “Praise be to the Lord that he has delivered us from their predations.” We all knew the truth of it. That Aspar and Anagastes had planned it all, but to confront the general would have meant certain death. Leodis nodded. “We are blessed, General”, he said. “I am delighted that you share my opinion”, Anagastes said. The general opened a chest, extracted a heavy purse, and handed it to Leodis. “This is for you, tribune”, he said. “Think of it as compensation for your discomfort.” Leodis nodded and tied the purse to his belt. “I need you to take the head of the Hun king to Consul Zeno and explain to him how the Huns turned on one another - despite my efforts to ensure the will of the emperor, the Huns killed their own.” Again Leodis nodded. “I find Greeks to be an intelligent an amicable people”, Anagastes said. “Not like Goths, who can be a most vengeful race”, he added as a warning.

* * *

When I had told my tale, Zeno banged the table with his fist, causing one leg to buckle. The table slumped to the side and his silver goblet slipped from the top, spilling wine all over the priceless carpets. He sighed deeply, not even noticing the damage. “We will have to turn this defeat into a victory”, he said. A slave rushed to retrieve the goblet and refilled it to the brim. “Get me another table”, he growled irritably, and gestured for the broken item to be removed. “Asbadus!” he shouted, the irritation palpable in his voice. “Moments later the burly Isaurian ducked through the doorway. “Lord?” he said. “Make the necessary arrangements”, Zeno said. “We leave for Constantinople at first light.” * * *

We departed early the following morning, heading east and south along the broad Via Militaris. A turma of cavalry drawn from the field army escorted us, and, of course, thirty mounted excubitors led by none other than Asbadus. “They may accompany us”, Zeno said gesturing in the direction of my three companions. “But I have no use for them in the Great City. You have earned my trust through loyal service, so I will honour my word and accept you into the ranks of the excubitors, but your companions will have to go their own way.” I nodded, as I had expected his words. “I am grateful, lord.” Zeno turned his horse and fell in behind the vanguard, safe amongst his trusted Isaurians. Constantinople was one hundred and fifty miles away – a journey that would last five days. Although it was cold, the skies were clear and as a result we travelled at a fast canter. I rode between Kursik and a morose Beremud. The big Goth gestured towards the clay jug hanging from my saddle. “Finally, after so long, I am free from the yoke of the Hun”, he said and shook his head in resignation. “And look at me now. I am destitute. I have no coin and no lord to serve.” His comment drew a frown from Kursik. “Stop complaining, Goth.” “I am a Heruli?” Beremud stated, and scowled at the Hun. “Ragnar is a Hun, but he thinks that he is a Heruli. At least you are in good company, Goth. You speak like a Goth, you look like a Goth and you stink like a Goth.” Kursik shook his head in disbelief, his hand going to the pommel of his blade. “The markings don’t make you a Heruli, just like Ragnar is still a Hun.” “Have a care, Hun”, Beremud growled. “You are my master no longer.” I raised an open palm in the air. “Peace. Look at us – a Greek, a Hun, a Goth and a Heruli, riding alongside one another.” My mention of the name ‘Goth’ drew a scowl from Beremud, but he kept his counsel. “Do you not think it strange?” I said. “Do you not think that it is the will of the gods?” The words had hardly left my lips when they attacked. Spears and light javelins impaled men and horses. From the cover of the trees at the side of the road, warriors charged at us, brandishing swords and spears, their shields held tight against their mailed torsos. I grabbed my axe from the saddle, blocked a sword strike with the haft, clicked my tongue and my horse sprang forward, knocking my attacker into the dust before trampling him. I swung around, slashed another warrior across the back with the seric iron blade and my stallion dispatched another with a vicious kick from its hind legs. I heard a scream from the side and a man fell heavily against my saddle, a Hun arrow protruding from his forehead. I saw Beremud, wielding his long-hafted axe from horseback. He effortlessly swung the weapon with one hand, splintering shields and crushing skulls. Leodis skilfully dispatched a bear of a man who no doubt underestimated my mentor who resembled a scribe. The little Greek pointed to the front of the column where Zeno and his Isaurians were hemmed in by attackers. We surged forward, Kursik clearing the way, his arrows slamming into the backs of the ambushers. Beremud was beside him. I saw the huge man remove a warrior’s head with a single strike. Another lunged at Kursik with a spear, only to be swatted aside, his skull crushed by a sweeping backhanded blow from Beremud’s heavy axe. The attackers, realising that they were being assailed from the rear, glanced behind them. It was their downfall, as it provided the Isaurians with the precious moments to draw their axes. Within heartbeats the tide turned. The burly Isaurians reaped a bloody harvest, causing the remaining few attackers to turn and flee, Kursik’s last arrows slamming into their backs. Content that the last of the enemy had been dealt with, Kursik gently unstrung his horn bow. He afforded Beremud a sidelong glance. “Not bad for a Goth”, he said, and dismounted. The Heruli grinned in reply. Kursik reached for his hand axes. “I will retrieve the arrows”, he said. I did not wish to witness the grizzly work and turned my back to the Hun and noticed Zeno, flanked by two Isaurians, slowly walking his horse towards us. He reined in a few paces from me. I inclined my head. “Lord”, I said. “You have done well, Ragnar the Herulian”, he said. “The men of Aspar and Anagastes were waiting for us. I should have known. They knew that I would take the head east.” Just then I heard a loud moan from behind me. I turned around in time to witness Kursik strike a prone man against the head with his bloodied axe. The moaning stopped. The Hun looked up from his toil with a sheepish expression. “I thought he was dead”, he said. “I always kill them before I chop out the arrows. They used to call me Kursik the Merciful.” Zeno grimaced. “We will speak again when we have reached our destination”, he said and turned the head of his horse towards the east. Chapter 8 – The City of Constantine

Leodis pointed to the gilded metal letters riveted to the white marble arch above the aptly named Golden Gate. My attention was focused on the life-sized bronze statue atop the wall. A man, an emperor of old I assumed, drove a cart pulled by four enormous bull elephants. “Read it!” Leodis said, this time with enough authority to pull me from my reverie. I read the Latin words out loud: “Theodosius adorned this place after he defeated the tyrant.” “The one who made this gate in gold, ushered in the golden age.” “Good”, Leodis replied. “At least all my time has not been completely wasted.” We followed the procession led by Zeno and his guards. Asbadus, the hulking Isaurian, rode at the head, holding aloft the head of Dengizich mounted on a wooden pole. Underneath the gory trophy a bronze plate was attached, crediting Emperor Leo as the vanquisher of the Huns. Thousands of people lined the Middle Street, giving praise to the Lord and the emperor, celebrating the demise of the son of the Scourge of God. “See”, Leodis said. “The consul managed to turn it around. Aspar and Anagastes have been outwitted. Expect them to launch a counter attack.” “Will there be fighting then?” Beremud growled. The big Goth rode behind me, abreast of Kursik. “I speak figuratively”, Leodis said with a sigh. We continued along the colonnaded street, Leodis pointing at the buildings of marble, stone and concrete, each one more magnificent and grandiose than the former. Eventually we passed through a gigantic columned marble arch, the height of two trees, and entered an open area. In the centre stood a column topped with a statue. I thought that I had seen it all as I marvelled at the grandeur, but I had barely recovered when we rode through another arch, even larger than the first one. “It is magnificent, is it not?” Leodis said, whispering in reverie. He pointed to the even taller column depicting the victories of some bygone emperor. I pointed to the godlike bronze statue at the top. “Is it a god?” I asked. “He thought he was one”, Leodis said. “It is the emperor called Constantine the Great.” It took me a handspan of heartbeats to put two and two together. “Ah”, I said. “The city carries his name.” “He was a Greek, of course”, Leodis said. “His father was an Illyrian and his mother a Greek, which makes him three quarters Greek.” “Heard she was a whore”, Beremud mumbled from behind us. “He ruled well for thirty years”, Leodis added, and turned in the saddle to face Beremud. “Not bad for the son of a whore, eh?” “Then I have much potential”, Beremud replied dryly. We left the circular Forum of Constantine, moving east along the Middle Road. Soon after, the procession halted. My small Hunnic horse did not provide a good vantage point so I was forced to peer over the heads and shoulders of the men in front of me. The road ended in a series of steps with two monstrous buildings on either side. Leodis gestured to the building to our left. “It is the Great Church”, he said. Kursik moved his horse between Leodis and me, staring reverently at the hundreds of marble columns, statues and mosaics decorating the marvel of engineering. “Does the God of the Christians live there?” he asked. “No”, Leodis said. “It is the abode of the patriarch of Constantinople. He is the head of the Christian church.” Kursik raised his eyebrows. “I thought the pope was the head of the church.” Leodis frowned, “It is difficult to explain”, he said, and waved away the question. “On the right is the palace of the emperor”, Leodis said. “He will show himself soon.” Not long after, a man dressed in rich purple robes appeared at the top of the steps, flanked by Isaurian axemen. Behind him followed a retinue of scribes and advisers. Zeno dismounted, accepted the pole with the head from Asbadus, and approached Emperor Leo. When he was three steps below the emperor, the consul inclined his head and went down on one knee. The emperor raised him by the hand and embraced him like a son. The thousands of people lining the streets cheered wildly. Leodis looked around to make sure none was listening. “Do you see the tall, bearded man with short-cropped grey hair?” he asked in a whisper. I nodded. “It is the Goth, Ardabur Aspar”, Leodis said. I took my time to study him. Aspar was old, his face creased, but he still stood tall and proud. Many of the courtiers were smiling, clearly pleased to receive proof of the demise of the Hun king. Not Aspar. He wore a serious, calculating expression. His cold eyes studied those around him, and I realised why his enemies called him a snake. There was no doubt in my mind that he was a formidable man. He wielded power, backed by the might of the Thracian Goths. In addition, he possessed great wealth as well as a keen, scheming mind. The emperor spoke with Zeno, who bowed deeply before descending the steps. Zeno handed the gory trophy to Asbadus. We opened our ranks and the pair rode past us, again leading the procession back along the main road of the city. Once outside the city, we rode north along the road bordering the great walls until we reached the Circus Gate. There, above the gate on the outside of the wall, Asbadus affixed the head of Dengizich. He had barely finished his grizzly task when city dwellers started streaming through the gate to catch a glimpse of the feared Hun king. Zeno stared at the spectacle for long. “He was a warrior”, he said. “He deserved better”, he added, and turned his horse back towards the city.

* * *

“Your barbarian friends have proven their loyalty to me on the road to Constantinople”, Zeno said. He drank deeply and held out his silver chalice. A pouring slave rushed forward and filled the vessel to the brim. “Therefore I have reconsidered. The three of you will all join the ranks of the excubitors. You will fill the shoes of the men who were killed on the road. I need men who are loyal. It will not be the last time that Aspar and Anagastes try to kill me.” He drank again and smiled. “That will certainly be the case after the announcement of the names of the consuls for next year.” I stared back at him with a confused expression. “You should listen to your Greek friend, Ragnar”, he said. “The Greeks understand the way of the court of the emperor.” “Aspar has lobbied for Anagastes to be made consul”, Zeno said. “Why would he wish to be consul?” I asked. Zeno sighed. “Power, influence, riches, esteem, to name a few reasons.” I nodded. “Tomorrow the emperor will announce that Flavius Jordanes, the master of soldiers of the eastern armies, will be appointed consul. It will surely enrage Anagastes as he believes that he deserves to be appointed because he defeated Dengizich.” “Does Anagastes deserve to be consul?” I asked. “Of course he does”, Zeno said, waving away my question. “But that is irrelevant. By not appointing Anagastes as consul, we will weaken Aspar. We have to be vigilant – Aspar will retaliate.” He drank again. “Enough. Report to the barracks of the excubitors tomorrow morning at first light. All three of you”, he said, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. Chapter 9 – Excubitors (January 470 AD)

Kursik did not hesitate. “I will go where you go, Ragnar”, he said. “The gods have woven together our destinies.” “Good”, I replied, and turned to face Beremud. “If you wish it, Beremud, Lord Zeno will accept you into the ranks of the excubitors”, I said. “It is a reward for your bravery.” “Do the excubitors fight, or do they dress up like pansies and guard the door of the consul?” he asked. “It is parlous times we live in, Beremud”, I replied. “The excubitors fight in the front rank. It will be dangerous.” “Good”, he said. “In that case, I will serve Lord Zeno.” He drank from his cup and continued. “I wish for an exciting life, not a long one. My grandfather lived long – it is a curse of the gods.” “There is much gold to be earned”, I said. “The coin matters not”, Beremud said, and grinned like a wolf. “As long as I am able to dip my blade in the blood of my enemies.”

* * *

Before sunrise the following morning, we left Leodis at the inn and found our way to the palace compound – to the barracks of the excubitors. Asbadus was waiting for us at the gate. “Come, Herulian”, he said. “You and the barbarians will share a room.” After a heartbeat he continued. “Do they speak Greek?” “A bit”, I said, “but not much.” “Then give them my words if they do not understand”, he said and started along the path. We walked through an archway guarded by two Isaurians, who inclined their heads to Asbadus. He led us along a marble portico and came to a halt in front of a wooden door. “The room is vacant”, he said. “The men were killed when we were ambushed on the road.” The room was spacious, with three wooden beds arranged against the far wall. On top of each platform was a sleeping sack filled with bedding material. I had seen them before and assumed that they contained straw. Asbadus gestured towards the beds with his chin. “The sacks are filled with feathers”, he said. “The Isaurians are the favourites of the emperor. We are as hard as iron, but we are treated like kings.” Asbadus waited impatiently while we stored our meagre belongings in the large wooden chests next to our beds. When we were done, he motioned for us to follow him. “Although we are hard men, we guard the East Roman Emperor, the ruler of half of the civilized world. Through our appearance, we add to the status of the emperor. If we look like impoverished beggars, it would not be seemly – our enemies would think that we are weak.” The Isaurian unlocked a door giving access to a large storeroom. “The coffers of the imperial treasury are empty after the failed campaign against the Vandali”, Asbadus said. “But there is always coin for the needs of the Isaurians – we are the ones who keep the emperor alive.” I knew little about the Germanic Vandali who had years before invaded and conquered Rome’s African provinces. Leodis told me that a large Roman army had failed to reconquer the lost land. I cared not for the state of the finances of Rome, and even less about the Vandali. What did interest me was the weaponry, armour and clothing neatly arranged on wooden shelves. With a trained eye Asbadus selected the required items and heaped them into our arms. He hesitated as he selected a chain mail jerkin for Beremud, eyeing the hulking Goth for a handspan of heartbeats before handing it over. “This is the largest we have. If it doesn’t fit, I will arrange for the smith to adjust it.” I heard Kursik mumble something but could only discern the word ‘fat’, which drew an angry glare from the big Goth. “Store it in your room”, Asbadus instructed. “I will come to show you to the baths.” Beremud met Asbadus’s words with an indifferent stare, but I noticed that Kursik appeared decidedly nervous. The Hun was still struggling to come to grips with the Greek language, but he recognized the word. “I will not bath”, he stated in his language when we were back in our room. Beremud eyed him with an amused expression. “Are you afraid of water, Hun?” he said, knowing full-well that it was a religious thing. I was raised by Atakam, the shaman, and knew the ways of the Huns. “If you sacrifice a goat every three moons, it will appease the water spirits”, I said. “It was explained to me by Atakam”, I added to give credence to the lie. “May I bath first or should I sacrifice beforehand?” he asked. “Within three days from bathing”, I said. “It is how the shaman explained it to me.” Not long after we were led to the bath complex exclusively used by the excubitors. On our way there, Kursik enquired about the availability of goats. Asbadus patiently listened to the Hun’s words. “Strictly speaking, we are not allowed to sacrifice, as the patriarch of the Church is dead set against it. He sees it as devil worship.” Asbadus lowered his voice. “The emperor is aware of it, but he chooses to turn a blind eye. Do not be concerned, Hun”, he said, and gestured around him with a sweep of his arm. “None other than the excubitors and their slaves are allowed within these walls. Here, we do as we see fit. I will arrange an animal.” Beremud and I enjoyed the bath. Kursik endured it. Afterward we dressed in clean, undyed woollen tunics. Again Asbadus escorted us from our room to the large courtyard of the barracks which was covered by a layer of sand. “The excubitors work shifts”, Asbadus explained. “From midday to the middle hour of the night, and again from midnight to the middle of the following day.” He gestured to the hundred odd men practising at arms in the courtyard. “A third of the men are on duty. Most of the others are still abed, resting. The ones you see here are enjoying a few days of rest. The men who are abed will join them at the start of the fourth hour of the morning.” Asbadus turned to face me. “I know that Trokondas has instructed you in the use of weapons. There is little I can teach you about the use of the axe, but I know someone who will be able to improve your skills with the sword.” Asbadus turned towards Kursik. “The emperor rarely travels on foot, therefore the excubitors are expected to fight from horseback when in the field. I am aware of your skill with the bow. When we leave these walls, you will not wield the axe – you will wield the horn bow.” Kursik grinned, slowly nodding his agreement. “But”, Asbadus said, and held up his hand. “You will have to learn how to use the axe when on foot, as you will not have your bow at hand when you stand guard.” Kursik pursed his lips and nodded his understanding. “Beremud”, Asbadus said. “I have seen you wield the axe when Aspar’s men attacked. You have great strength, but you lack refinement. We will remedy that.” Beremud nodded, as he was always keen to improve his skills. “But the most important skill you will have to learn, is to speak and understand Greek”, he said, addressing my two companions. “And that, Ragnar the Herulian, is your responsibility.” I sighed and nodded in resignation.

* * *

In the end I begged Leodis to help me teach the tongue of the Greeks to Kursik and Beremud, as my efforts were not yielding the expected return. Convincing Leodis was no easy feat. Eventually I resorted to bribery. He did not wish for gold, as he possessed much coin. I promised to keep him up to date with the news and gossip fresh from the passages of the Great Palace. But that was not the only oath I gave. Come to think of it – many oaths were given. Kursik, Beremud, and I swore an oath of loyalty to Emperor Leo. We swore to protect him, even if it meant sacrificing ourselves. One evening, late into the hours of the darkness, we stood in the courtyard of the barracks, Illuminated by the light of a full moon. We swore an oath before the excubitors. We swore to protect our new brothers to the death. In return, they gave us their oaths. Chapter 10 – Petrus (May 470 AD)

The Spaniard’s longsword remained motionless. He held the weapon high, in a head guard, with both hands on the hilt. I was winding my training weapon between the high ox guard and the middle guard, showing off my newly acquired adroitness. Petrus stared at me with a bored expression. “What are you doing, Ragnar?” he asked. In response, I moved my right foot forward, as if stepping in to attack. Almost immediately I moved my left foot back. To a novice the reversal of my feet would seem meaningless, but my opponent was a master of the sword. He knew that by changing my feet I had altered the relative angle between us. I stepped in again, and this time I thrust at his chest. Petrus stepped back with his left foot, placing it behind his right. His right hand anchored the hilt just below the guard while his left was held loosely around the butt. In a blur of movement he rotated the sword above his head. As his left foot touched the ground, he allowed his weight to shift to his back leg. He leaned backwards, pivoted his hips, and the blade came around like lightning. The Spaniard moved so fast that all I could do was to stagger backwards in an attempt to avoid the cut. But it helped me naught, as the blade of the wooden sword inflicted a painful blow to my lower leg. We both knew that such a blow from an iron sword would have been debilitating at best. “You win again”, I said, and shook my head. “It is not about overcoming me”, Petrus said. “Few men are able to.” It was no boast – he was merely stating a fact, as his skill with the blade was legendary amongst the excubitors. “The aim is to be the best swordsman that you can be”, he added, and slapped me on the back. “You have done well, Herulian, your skill is improving.” Petrus walked away to go about his business. I noticed that Asbadus had been watching the training bout. He walked over to me. “I have never seen him lose a bout with swords”, the big Isaurian said. He reflected for a couple of heartbeats. “Only once did I see him bested.” I frowned, confused by his words. “Who?” I asked. “Trokondas”, he said. Asbadus gestured towards my bearded axe leaning against a stake. “With that”, he said. “Not with a sword.”

* * *

Slowly but surely my skills improved. The constant training, aided by the abundance of food, allowed me to prosper. I became stronger, my shoulders broad and muscular from many hours training with axe, sword and bow. Asbadus allowed Kursik and me to practise with the bow. It turned out that the bowcraft that Sigizan had taught me as a child was not in vain. Before long I was able to regularly hit targets from horseback without falling from the saddle, although it soon became evident that I would never wield a bow like a Hun. One morning, after a long session of archery practise on a field outside the walls, I rode back to the barracks in the company of Kursik. I was pleased with my performance as I had managed to hit the straw targets multiple times. Kursik sighed in resignation. “It is the blood of the Heruli that has diluted the blood of the Khan”, he said. I offered no reply. “Maybe you are right after all”, he said. “Maybe you are a Heruli.” “I will show you that I am a Hun”, I said, and kicked my horse to a gallop. Less than a heartbeat later, a howling Kursik followed in my wake. When we reached the gate, three miles farther along the road, I had stretched the lead to fifty paces. “You ride like a Hun”, Kursik conceded, shaking his head, “but you shoot a bow like a Heruli.” Back at the barracks, Asbadus sought me out. “Zeno wishes to see you”, he said. I handed the reins of my horse to Kursik, who, thanks to the efforts of Leodis, understood the words of the Isaurian. I followed Asbadus through the maze of paths, porticoes and hallways, finally arriving at the door of the son-in-law and confidant of the emperor. The excubitors moved to the side and acknowledged us with a nod. Asbadus waved me through and closed the door behind me. As was his habit, Zeno reclined on his couch while sipping wine. He indicated to a pouring slave who rushed to fill a chalice. “Leave us!” he commanded as soon as I held the vessel in my hand. The slaves and servants disappeared from the room. “Fresh pomegranate juice mixed with white wine and crushed ice”, he said, and took another swallow. “Try it.” I took a mouthful and nodded my appreciation. Zeno probably expected more of a reaction and for a moment a frown flickered across his brow. He waved away his own disappointment. “I did not summon you to offer you refreshments”, he said. “There is a rather delicate task with which I require assistance.” He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, remaining silent for a handspan of heartbeats. I sipped on the wine and juice, which was delicious. “Before I forget”, he said. “Never repeat a single word of our conversation to anyone.” I nodded. Zeno scowled. “Say it”, he said. “I will never repeat a single word, lord”, I replied, meeting his stare. He held my gaze for a moment then looked out the window, south, across the wide waters of the Propontis. “Do you know what a stylite is?” he asked. I shook my head, and added, “no lord”, before he could object. He gazed into the distance, no doubt trying to offer an explanation in simple terms. “I was educated by a Greek, lord”, I said, as a reminder that I was more than an uneducated barbarian. “A stylite is a Christian holy man who spends his days atop a stone pillar”, he said. “Never do they venture out from the elevated platform. They spend their time praying, fasting and preaching. In this way, they become close to God, who rewards them with gifts.” “Gifts, lord?” I asked. “Some are given the gift of sight”, he said. “God lifts the veil, and allows them to peer into the future.” “Like a shaman?” I asked. “Yes”, he said, and held up an open palm. “But do not use that word around the palace. The emperor will have no choice but to condemn you to the mines for the rest of your life if the agents of the patriarch were to hear you.” “Thank you for the warning, lord”, I said. Zeno waved away my gratitude. “We have received word today that Anagastes and his army have risen in revolt”, he said. “Which comes as no surprise as he is discontent because he was not appointed as consul.” “What has a Christian sham… er, holy man got to do with a Gothic general, lord?” I asked. “Nothing, of course”, he said, and grinned. “All goes according to plan. We have been waiting for Anagastes to revolt. I will go to Thrace at the head of our field army to punish the Goths. This will weaken the position of Aspar.” He pursed his lips and sighed. “But the emperor wishes that he and I consult Daniel the Stylite before I leave.” “Is it a problem, lord?” I asked, still confused. “We cannot command the stylite to attend the emperor, as he never leaves his tower”, he said. “Daniel will not be willing to divine the future in the presence of an entourage, alas the only way to give effect to the wish of Emperor Leo is for him and me to venture from the city on our own under cover of darkness.” He stood to refill his own chalice and drank deeply. “That is where you and your Hun will be useful”, he said. “You will be able to guard us from a distance. You will be able to use your bows.” “Not if it is dark, lord”, I said. “Do you think me a fool?” he asked, and continued without waiting for a response. “We will go when the moon is full.” “Yes, lord”, I replied, drawing a scowl from the son-in-law of the emperor. Chapter 11 – Daniel

Four hooded men rode north along the street bordering the stream the locals call the Lykos River. Kursik and I trailed fifty paces behind. From the side of the road, a shape emerged from the shadows into the moonlight. Kursik reached for his bow. I heard Asbadus issue words that sounded more like a growl. The shadow turned tail and skulked off into an alleyway. “Beggar”, I whispered, and Kursik removed the arrow from the bow, exhaling as he released the tension on the string. “Pity”, he said. Before long we arrived at the walls of Theodosius. The fifth military gate, as it was known, was recessed between two enormous towers. Asbadus whistled twice. The thick doors creaked open, allowing the four men to leave the city. Slowly the doors closed again. We exited moments before they slammed shut. Three miles north of the walls, near the crest of a low hill, the two Isaurian escorts reined in, allowing Zeno and Emperor Leo to continue on their own. Brigandage was rife in the aftermath of the wars. Only fools and killers travelled in small groups at night and we prayed that any potential robbers would mistake the two men for the latter. The Hun and I rode at the side of the road, keeping to the shadows. Kursik touched my arm and reined in. I followed suit. He pointed ahead to where a tall brick column was silhouetted against the starlit sky. The emperor and Zeno dismounted, tied their horses to a tree, and approached on foot. We hobbled our horses and followed, still keeping a respectable distance. The night was eerily silent, allowing us to hear every spoken word. “Venerable father”, the emperor said. “We have come to seek your counsel.” For long there was no reply, but the most powerful man in the world waited patiently until the stylite answered. “Emperor”, a voice replied from atop the tower. “Allow me a moment to quench my thirst. I have fasted and prayed much this day.” There was silence until the holy man spoke again. “Take the ladder and ascend.” Leo and Zeno struggled for a moment but succeeded in placing a ladder against the side of the tower. One of them held it fast, while the other climbed to the top. “Father”, Leo continued from the top of the ladder. “My son-in-law will go to Thrace, because of the war which threatens. Please ask God to keep him safe.” For long there was no answer, until Daniel replied in a quivering voice. “He will return unharmed, it is the will of God. But he must exercise caution, as the henchmen of the Evil One will plot against him.” In turn, the saint laid his hands upon the men, and blessed them in the name of God. They turned around to leave, but Zeno was called back. “Lord Tarasis”, Daniel said. “Take along the men who watch from the shadows.”

* * *

The two men collected their horses and rode back the way they had come. When we crested the hill near the place where we had earlier left Asbadus and Petrus, a man stepped into the road, holding up an open palm. “Who could this man be?” I was thinking when Kursik’s hunting arrow slammed into his skull. Then the rest of the brigands attacked. We were behind the men, who had concealed themselves by crouching low at the side of the road. How many there were, we did not know. Leo and Zeno’s horses reared, but they managed to stay in their saddles. Zeno was an Isaurian and no fool - within a heartbeat his axe was in his hand. Leo was a Bessian by birth who had made his name in the armies of Thrace. I saw the blade of the emperor flash in the moonlight and heard the screams of the attackers. I drew back the string of my bow, but amidst the confusion it was too dark to find a target. Beside me Kursik was releasing an arrow every heartbeat. “Aim for the legs”, he said. “The attackers are on foot.” Men went down, screaming in pain as the Hun’s arrows skewered legs and pierced groins. In desperation, I released an arrow into the bunched enemy. I nocked another, just in time to see Asbadus and Petrus join the fray. Within moments it was all over. Kursik and I approached the scene. The agile Hun leaned down from his saddle and lifted the haft of a discarded spear with the tip of his bow. He grabbed the weapon in his right hand and proceeded to ride among the injured brigands and spear them from above. He hesitated for a moment before skewering another prone body. “This one seems to be uninjured”, he said in broken Greek, addressing Asbadus. “I could question him?” “How long do you need, Hun?” Zeno asked. Kursik drew his wicked dagger. “Not long, lord”, he said, and manhandled the bound man into the dark woods. Within heartbeats the screaming started. It continued unabated for at least a hundred heartbeats, until it suddenly came to an abrupt end. The Hun emerged from the shadows, wiping the blood from his hands on what I could only think was a piece of the unfortunate brigand’s tunic. “He was a Goth, lord”, he said to Zeno. “He was paid by Ardaburius, the son of Aspar, to kill you and the emperor.” “How did he know we would be here?” Zeno asked. Kursik stared back sheepishly. “I am sorry, lord”, he said. “I cut too deep, too soon.” Zeno waved it away. “It matters not, Hun”, he said. “You and the Herulian have done well.” The remainder of the journey back to the palace passed without incident. Back in our room we shared the tale with Beremud, who felt cheated out of a fight. Kursik lowered his voice. “There is more”, he said. Beremud’s scowl disappeared when he realised that there was something afoot. We both leaned in conspiratorially. “The Goth that I questioned told me more”, Kursik said. “He told me that there are traitors within the ranks of the Isaurians. Men who are paid by Aspar.” I had foolishly believed that the Isaurians were incorruptible. The Hun’s words served as a rude awakening. “Were you given names?” Beremud asked. “He did not know”, Kursik said, and issued a grin that chilled my blood. “If he had known names, he would have told me.” I harboured no doubts that the Hun’s words were accurate.

* * * Kursik and I, to the chagrin of Beremud, were gifted three days leave as a reward for our service to Zeno and the emperor. The following day I visited with Leodis, who was still staying at the inn. Leodis, whom I saw every few weeks, had decided to remain in the city for the time being. At the time I wondered why he did, but now that I am older, I realise that he wished to be near his son. He had never sired children. In his eyes I was his son. He listened intently as I recounted the encounter with the stylite, and Kursik’s questioning of the attacker. “Years ago, I would not have believed the words of a man who claims to be able to see the future”, he said. Leodis used his forefinger to point at his eyes. “But I have seen things, Ragnar. I have seen how Atakam communes with the gods and how he is given glimpses of the future. I have seen his predictions come to fruition. Daniel the Stylite is well-known for his visions.” “Does that mean we do not have to be concerned? Will the gods intervene and ensure that Zeno remains unharmed?” Leodis scowled. “Certainly not, Ragnar. Did you not hear the words of the stylite? He told the emperor to send the two of you along, did he not? Therein lies the crux of the prophecy. You, Kursik and Beremud must ensure that Zeno remains unharmed, that is the task that you have been given by the gods.” I felt a great weight settle on my shoulders. Chapter 12 – Silver bow (June 470 AD)

“Are your men ready to travel?” Zeno asked Asbadus, who stood beside me. “Yes, lord”, the big man replied. Zeno turned to me. “You overheard the prophecy of the stylite?” he asked. “Yes, lord”, I said. “Do not be concerned”, he said. “The emperor has doubled the number of excubitors who will accompany us to Thrace. With sixty Isaurians protecting me, all will be well.” I wished to speak with Zeno alone, but to request an audience would have raised suspicion. “Yes, lord, nothing can go wrong”, I confirmed, deciding to keep my counsel. For a brief moment I saw Zeno’s eyes narrow at my words, but he must have dismissed it as the ramblings of a fool. “I am assembling the legions”, he said. “Make sure that you are ready.”

* * *

Ten days later, an East Roman field army left the Great City of Constantine through the Gate of Charisius, heading west on the Roman road that led to Hadrianople. Zeno, the master of soldiers of Thrace, was in the vanguard. He rode a magnificent black stallion and his gilded armour made him shine like a god. Surrounding him were sixty excubitors. Kursik, Beremud and I were among them. Nearly half of the Roman soldiers were infantrymen. It would have been folly for the cavalry to advance to Hadrianople at speed, thereby splitting the army. What we did do every morning, was to ride ahead of the lumbering foot soldiers and baggage train, identify a campsite, and then wait for the infantry to catch up. To ensure Zeno’s safety, the Isaurians set up camp in a circle around the praetorium. Apart from the usual guards stationed at his tent on a rotational basis, anyone who wished the general harm would have to make his way through the camp of the excubitors, which was off limits to all outsiders during the hours of darkness. On the afternoon of the fifth day, having made camp early, Kursik, Beremud and I sat outside the tent we shared. The three of us had been watching our fellow excubitors for days, but none showed any sign of suspicious behaviour. As was our habit, we spoke in the tongue of the Huns, which had the added benefit that none other could understand our words. “I have spoken with many of the men”, I said, “but all appears to be normal.” Kursik nodded. “It is the same with me.” Beremud nodded as well, but seemed to hesitate. “I rode behind Petrus today”, he said, lowering his voice. “They spoke about a blade that he had ordered.” Kursik shrugged. “What about it? It is not unusual for a man like Petrus to order a blade. He earns much gold.” Beremud drank wine from his cup to wet his throat. “A few weeks ago I was on duty when a man, a blade smith, came to show his wares at the palace. The emperor requested his presence as he desired to purchase a blade.” Kursik raised his eyebrows. “I did not know of the emperor’s interest in swords.” “He wished to purchase a gift”, Beremud replied. “There is a rumour that he will make peace with the king of the Vandali.” “And?” I asked. “There was one sword which interested the emperor - a blade which was forged in the faraway lands of Serica.” Kursik had a keen interest in all things martial. “Was it a longsword?” he asked. “It was a blade the likes of which I have never seen before”, Beremud said with reverie. “For the love of the gods”, I hissed. “What has it to do with treachery?” Beremud held up his open palm. “You must learn patience, Ragnar”, he said. I scowled and he continued. “Where was I?” he asked. “Oh, yes, the blade from Serica. Yes, it was a sight to behold, Kursik. It is shiny, like silver, flexible, but retains its edge.” “Is it magic?” Kursik asked. “No my friend, two pieces of steel, one hard and brittle, the other soft and flexible, are forged together by a master smith”, Beremud said. “Few in their lands possess the knowledge.” I bit my lip, trying to be patient. “The man wished to trade the blade for two hundred gold coins”, Beremud said. “It is the same blade that Petrus ordered.” For a moment I was speechless. The price of the sword represented the equivalent of seven years’ pay. “He is already spending the reward for murdering Zeno”, Kursik said in a near whisper.

* * *

Later that same evening, under cover of darkness, I stole from our tent. Kursik had blackened my hair, face and all other exposed skin with soot, which every respectable Hun carried on his person. In addition, I wore an old brown tunic to blend in. I walked in a crouch, weaving my way through the many tents. When the tent of Petrus came into view, I went down on all fours and advanced at a crawl. On the far side of the tent I noticed the flicker of a fire and heard muffled voices. I crept closer until I was less than a pace from the canvas. Still it was almost impossible to discern their words. I flattened myself against the ground and at the pace of a snail I crept around the edge of the tent until my head rested against a wooden peg. I did not look up, but lay facedown in the grass, too scared that the whites of my eyes would give away my presence. “One hundred and fifty gold coins for a night’s work”, a voice said. “That is more than five years’ pay”, the unfamiliar voice added. “Yes”, came the answer. I recognized the voice as belonging to Petrus. “You do not have to do anything, just leave your post when the signal is given.” “How many know of this?” the unfamiliar voice asked. “Twenty of the excubitors are with us”, Petrus replied. “When?” the voice asked? “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, but before we reach Hadrianople”, Petrus said. I heard him take a swallow of wine. “I will do it”, the voice said. I heard the jingling of coins in a purse. “A small down payment”, Petrus said and chuckled. “I will be on duty soon”, the voice said, and I heard the sounds of a man standing to leave. No sooner had the man stood when I realised that he was heading towards me. I pressed my face into the grass. The man’s foot tripped over my head and he stumbled. My hand moved to the hilt of my sword, only to remember that I had left my weapon in the tent. “Bloody tent peg”, the man said, spat onto the grass and issued a string of profanities. Cursing, his footsteps faded into the distance. I lay in silence, until Petrus growled. “The fat Goth who rides with the boy and the Hun is asking questions. He must be silenced.” Another issued a grunt of agreement. It was time to leave. It took forever to extricate myself from my precarious position. The best part of an hour later, I was reunited with my companions. I told them all, leaving out the part where Petrus referred to Beremud as fat. “Do we go to Asbadus?” Beremud asked. “What if he is one of the twenty?” Kursik replied. “Then I will go to Zeno”, I said. “The guards who are on duty will hear your words”, Beremud said. “They may be part of the conspiracy.” My mind raced, trying to think of a way to save the son-in-law of the emperor, the man whom I had given an oath. No matter how hard we tried, none of us could devise a viable plan. Eventually we retired to our furs, knowing that time was running out. I lay awake for long, begging the gods for assistance. We broke camp early the following morning. As was the norm, the excubitors rode in the vanguard, surrounding the man they were oathbound to protect. Asbadus rode beside me, on the right. “You seem preoccupied, Ragnar”, he said, loud enough for others to hear. Petrus rode four paces in front of me and noticed his neck stiffen at the words of Asbadus, no doubt listening intently for any sign that his treachery had been discovered. Then, from nowhere, the gods planted an idea in my mind. “My bow was damaged during our last excursion”, I said. “I am sure that Zeno will replace it for you”, he said. “I will speak with him.” I shook my head. “It is the bow that once belonged to the Great Khan. It is irreplaceable.” “Show me”, he said. I extracted the bow from the case and handed the weapon to Asbadus. “It is truly magnificent”, he said, and ran his fingers across the silver inlays. “But I see no damage.” “Only when the bow is strung and drawn can the damage be seen”, I said, hooked a limb of the horn bow behind my right foot, and strung the bow in the proven way. Again I handed the bow to Asbadus and offered him an arrow. “Nock this, then draw it, and I will show you.” The big man shrugged, awkwardly nocked an arrow, and drew the string back in a half-draw. “All the way”, I said. He grunted and drew it level with his eye. “Be careful with that”, I said, and grabbed his elbow, squeezing the nerve with my thumb – an old Hun trick I had learned from Sigizan. His draw hand opened involuntarily. The armour-piercing arrow flew from the mighty bow of Attila and slammed into the shoulder of Petrus, knocking him off his horse. “What have you done?” I shouted. Asbadus gaped at the bow in horror, as if he held a viper in his hand. Needless to say, chaos ensued. Chapter 13 – Serdica

To say that Zeno was angry was an understatement. He beckoned for Asbadus and me to follow him. He led us away from the milling excubitors, waving away the guards who wished to follow. “Who shot Petrus?” he said in a raised voice just short of a yell. “I did, lord”, Asbadus said sheepishly. “It was an accident.” “Is that what happened, Ragnar?” he said, his eyes boring into me. Again Asbadus intervened on my behalf. “It is not his fault, lord. I am to blame.” By the way that Asbadus took the blame, I knew in my heart that he was not part of the treachery. “There are traitors within the ranks of the excubitors”, I blurted out. Asbadus turned to face me, a deep frown appearing on his face. “What did you say?” Asbadus said, his voice suddenly carrying a hostile edge. “There are traitors within the ranks of the excubitors”, I said, repeating the words slowly and deliberately. “You are treading on dangerous ground, boy”, he growled, all sheepishness gone. Zeno raised an open palm. “Explain yourself, Ragnar.” I told them of the words that Kursik extracted from the Goth. “How do you know that the Goth was not lying?” Asbadus said. “I have seen the Huns go about their business”, I said. “The last thing a man thinks about is lying if he knows that the truth will end the suffering.” Asbadus pursed his lips and nodded, no doubt having heard the tales of horror. But the two Isaurians were far from convinced. Then I told them how I learned of the treachery of Petrus. Zeno glanced at the excubitors, still milling around the prone body of Petrus where medici were tending to his wound. “And this was your idea?” he asked me after a handspan of heartbeats. “Yes, lord”, I said. A smile broke Zeno’s visage, and he slapped my shoulder. “We will make a Roman of you yet, Ragnar the Devious”. “Listen carefully”, he said. “This is what we will do.” * * *

We headed east, back to the Great City of Constantine. I rode beside Zeno and Asbadus. Twenty paces behind us followed Kursik and Beremud. We all led two spare horses. The five of us had been on the road for two hours when Zeno reined in on the bank of a small river which brought cold water from the distant hills. I assumed he wished to water his horse, but he steered the animal into the shallow stream. He pulled on the reins and turned its head back in the direction we had come. Slowly the animal started to pick its way east along the rocky bed. We rode behind Zeno, following the stream that diverged from the road as it meandered through woods of oak and hornbeam. We kept to the stream for long until the fading light forced us to make camp in a clearing on the southern bank. Kursik and I collected wood for a fire while Asbadus and Beremud pitched the tents. The woods yielded an abundance of firewood. Soon we all sat beside a warming fire while choice cuts of mutton hissed above the flames. Zeno stood from the furs to pour us each a cup of wine from an amphora. He must have noticed my surprise when he handed me a cup. “I was raised in Isauria”, he said with a grin. “I have not always been a Roman patrician. As boys, Trokondas and I spent weeks in the wild. I am familiar with the hard life.” He took a swallow from his cup. “When I am among Romans, you see excess surrounding me, slaves attending to my every need. Romans do not frown upon excess, Ragnar. They regard it as a sign of strength. That is the reason why I live as I do when I am in the Great City. There is no need for me to do it here.” “I understand, lord”, I said. He sat down again. “My generals will continue the hunt for Anagastes”, he said. “They are not in danger. However, I no longer know whom to trust. Even my Isaurians have been corrupted.” “Why are we travelling back east?” Asbadus asked. “Aspar is a formidable enemy”, Zeno said. “If he has decided to have me killed, his henchmen will stop at nothing. Even now they will be on the road to Constantinople, riding hard to catch up with us. That is why I have told all that we are returning to the city.” “Where will we go, lord?” Asbadus asked. “Pretty soon my enemies will realise that we are not on our way back to Constantinople”, he said. “Then every man in Aspar’s pay will be searching for me, keen to take my head to their master.” He swept his hand in a great circle. “All of the province will be crawling with enemies. We will leave Thrace, but we will do what they do not expect – we will travel west to the Diocese of Dacia.” The two hundred miles to Serdica should have been a five-day journey given the quality of our horses but we were fleeing from the long reach of Aspar, forcing us to use the less travelled roads and greenways. Eventually, after ten days on the road, we arrived at the walls of the city. It was evident that some great evil had befallen Serdica years before. Although the thick walls surrounding the city had been repaired, the work was crude. We entered through the eastern gate. The dressed stone and marble cladding around the sturdy brickwork had fallen away in many places, presumably where the stones from siege engines had hit. The wood of the gates was weathered and the copper tarnished. Zeno shook his head. “To think that Constantine the Great nearly made this city the capital of the East. Look at it now.” Kursik pointed at the damage. “Your grandsire, the Great Khan, destroyed the city”, he whispered. “The city dwellers could have opened the gates and he would have been merciful, but alas, they chose to defy him.” Kursik shook his elongated head. “Defying the Khan did not end well for these people.” Zeno led us through the main street. Some buildings had been meticulously restored, while others still lay in ruin. He eventually reined in and dismounted in front of an inn close to the centre of town. He handed me his reins and started down the street. Asbadus followed, but Zeno raised his open palm. “I have business to attend to”, he said. “Do not be concerned, Aspar has no influence in this part of the Empire.” Asbadus nodded and Zeno handed him a bulging purse. “Get us the best rooms they have. Even if it means that they have to throw out the current guests – you see, this inn is the only one with private baths.” Zeno’s words turned out to be prophetic. Not long after, we stood in the courtyard of the inn which was paved with looted white marble and bordered by a colonnaded portico. The innkeeper, who had explained that there were no rooms available was staring at the ten gold coins in Asbadus’s left palm with undisguised greed. “Make a plan”, Asbadus said, and rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword, hinting at the alternative if the innkeeper failed to ‘make a plan’. Soon, servants led our horses to the stables at the back of the building while others carried our baggage to the large rooms on the second storey. The innkeeper smiled broadly, rubbing the newly-minted coins in his hand. “It turned out to be a misunderstanding, good sirs”, he said. “The other guests were about to be on their way. We always have room for noble clients such as yourselves.” From the edge of my vision I caught a glimpse of people, struggling with their baggage, being frogmarched out the gate. In any event, with the accommodation arranged, we sought out the baths. All of us, except Kursik of course, who apparently had to attend to his horse. “I will buy you a goat to sacrifice, Hun”, Beremud said. “I prefer a lighter purse to the stink.” “At least a bath can cure my stink”, Kursik replied with a scowl. “Even if it costs me a goat.” He pointed at Beremud. “All the gold in the Empire cannot purchase a remedy for corpulence.” Beremud issued a profanity in some lost language of the Steppes, waved away the words of the Hun, and led the way to the baths. We found Zeno already immersed in the warm water, sipping on wine from a silver chalice. “Where is the Hun?” he asked. “He is the one most in need of a bath.” “He could not find a goat in time”, I replied, drawing a frown from Zeno, who waved away my words. “It matters not”, he said. “Tomorrow we will start our journey south to Thessalonica.” “Thessalonica, lord?” I asked, clearly confused. “Thessalonica on the shore of the Aegean”, he said. “From there I have arranged for an imperial galley to take us back to the City of Constantine.” My experience of boats was not pleasant, and I must have frowned. Zeno interpreted my behaviour as fear. He slapped me on the shoulder. Do not be concerned, Ragnar the Herulian. Not many of your kind know of boats – you will be safe.” I nodded and kept my counsel. Chapter 14 – Pelagius

My body felt clean and invigorated. My stomach was filled with delicious fare and my head was slightly dulled from too much good wine. I even smelled good as a result of the aromatic oils applied by slaves. Yet, in the back of my mind, I knew that the expedition to Thrace had brought me closer to the lands of the Svear, to Trokondas, and of course, to Unni. Now we would travel south, only to return to the faraway Constantinople. I spent a fitful night, rolling around on the soft, down-filled mattress, dreaming of Unni. I caught a glimpse of her in the fields, her white dress catching the corner of my eye as she ran past the edge of my vision before disappearing among the trees. But although I was there with her, she was always just out of my reach. It felt like my time with the Svear was but a dream. On the road to Thessalonica I was beset by a dark mood. I was distant, unapproachable, and morose. It was no surprise that Zeno and my companions interpreted this behaviour as the manifestation of fear - fear of boats and the sea. Which was far from the truth, of course. We had all changed our military outfits for the clothing worn by civilians. Zeno and Asbadus were both dressed as wealthy merchants. Kursik, Beremud and I were attired in the drab garments of men guarding the wealthy, the extravagant armour and weapons of the excubitors safely stowed away in our baggage. Zeno carried written orders sealed by the governor of Dacia. The scroll allowed him and his retinue free passage on a military galley to Constantinople. He had instructed the governor not to mention his name and rank, as it would not do to tempt fate by alerting the agents of Aspar. My bad mood evaporated as soon as we boarded the galley, a magnificent, sleek warship with twenty-five oars on a side. We were met at the gangplank by a man in his late twenties. “I am Pelagius, the centurion stationed on this ship”, he said, addressing Zeno and Asbadus. “For the time being I am also the captain”, he added. The captain was not the grizzled veteran I had expected. He must have noticed the surprise written all over our faces. “Many captains lost their lives during the campaign against the Vandali”, he explained. “The Empire does not have the luxury of captains with vast experience any longer.” He paused for a moment. “Not that experience saved them when Geiseric burned the fleet.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “I was there that day - sometimes this is better than experience.” Since the governor’s orders referred to the merchants as ‘renowned guests of the emperor’, the young captain insisted on vacating his place of privilege under the canvas canopy at the prow of the ship. Zeno and Asbadus moved into the small sleeping quarters. The following morning the ship left the harbour on the back of a high tide and a favourable wind. An hour into the journey, the wind changed direction and increased in strength. The ship lurched and fell as it crested wave after wave. My companions, including Zeno, were badly affected. While Kursik and Beremud retched over the side of the prow, Zeno and Asbadus had the luxury of expelling their last meal into pails under the shade of the canopy. I, on the contrary, was not affected by the ailment of the sea. Out of boredom, I sought out the young captain, who I found beside the steersman at the stern of the ship. “I see that you care naught for the sickness of Salacia”, he said when he noticed my approach. “Where I come from, we call her Ran”, I replied. “Her name matters not”, he said. “What does matter is that the goddess favours you.” Pelagius suddenly held up an open palm and glanced at a distant headland. “Prepare to come about”, he shouted in a booming voice. The crew scurried about under the watchful eye of the captain who had taken hold of the steering oar. The soldiers, who doubled up as crew and rowers, soon manipulated the lateen sail to its desired position, the captain guiding his vessel with an expert hand. When the tack had been completed, he visibly relaxed and handed the steering oar to the steersman who nodded in appreciation of a well-executed manoeuvre. Pelagius patted the oak railing with his right palm. “She is a beauty, is she not?” I nodded. “They call her a dromon, a runner”, he said. “And boy, can she run”, he added with a grin. The galleys were designed to hug the coast and every evening we anchored close to land. A few of the crew always ventured ashore to purchase provisions or to replenish the water supply. Zeno and Asbadus begged Pelagius to be allowed to spend a night on land, but he was a cautious captain and denied their requests. “My men and passengers are my responsibility”, he said. “It is not uncommon for men to disappear from a night spent on land. No sir, you will remain on the ship.” At one stage I was certain that Zeno would reveal his real identity just to be able to be free from the interminable swaying of the hull. The third evening Pelagius compromised by mooring within a bay, sheltered from the worst of the gale. On the morning of the fourth day we woke to a calm, flat sea and clear blue skies. My companions still wore pale complexions, but Zeno managed a weak smile. In stark contrast to the improvement in my friends’ moods, the crew all seemed to carry scowls on their faces. “They will have to row today”, Pelagius explained when asked about the sudden change in the demeanour of the crew. As soon as the sail had been furled and stored, the men started pulling at the oars. The captain set an easy pace that could be sustained for long. The following days we rowed through a peaceful blue ocean while dolphins frolicked in the water next to the prow. Slowly but surely my companions found their sea legs and returned to their old selves. One morning, a week later, I sat at the stern with the captain and Kursik. “Don’t like this one bit”, Pelagius growled while watching the animals jump from the water. “They carry the souls of the dead to their final destination.” “I thought they are good omens”, Kursik said and tore at a piece of dried meat with his teeth before passing it back to the captain. “They are said to rescue shipwrecked sailors”, Pelagius said. “Maybe they are waiting to rescue us?” I gestured to the endless blue surrounding us. “And how will you manage to be shipwrecked in these waters?” I asked with a grin. Pelagius’s expression turned serious and for a moment I thought that I had offended him with my words, but I noticed that he was staring over my shoulder past the steersman at the stern. “I see a ship”, he said, and shielded the sun from his eyes. “Could be pirates.” “Who would dare to attack a dromon with fifty soldiers aboard?” I asked. Pelagius clenched his jaw. “Vandali”, he hissed, and spat into the water. “Bloody dolphins, told you they are bad news.” The crew took turns to don their armour, which meant that the unknown ship gained on us with every passing heartbeat. “Are you sure they are Vandali?” Zeno asked. “We will soon find out”, Pelagius said and strapped on his chain mail. “You and your big friend better take shelter when they catch up with us”, the captain said to Zeno. “Leave the fighting to the soldiers.” Just then Asbadus arrived, wearing his full excubitor armour, his bearded axe held loosely in his right hand. Pelagius raised his eyebrows but made no comment. “Arm yourselves”, Asbadus told Kursik and me. “I have spoken to Beremud.” We joined our companions at the stern when we were done. “I wish for a helmet and mail from your store”, Zeno said to the captain. Pelagius stared back at him. “It is prohibited to hand weapons and armour to civilians”, he said, and pursed his lips. His eyes darted between Zeno and the intimidating excubitors. Eventually he sighed, and said, “I’m not allowed to ask, am I?” “No”, Asbadus growled. The captain nodded and pointed at the fast approaching boat, less than three hundred paces behind us. “They are Vandali pirates”, he confirmed. “Do not think that they are rabble. They are the same soldiers who have defeated Roman armies time and again. They are financed and equipped by their king, Geiseric, who shares in the spoils.” While Kursik strung this bow, I studied the Vandali boat, which reminded me of the boat of my uncle Mourdagos, the Heruli pirate. The enemy boat was larger than the dromon, with thirty oars each side. The vessel was sleek and glided through the water like a serpent intent on catching its prey. Kursik nocked an arrow and tested the draw. “May I?” he asked. “Kill the steersman and captain first”, Asbadus growled in response. “Are you able to shoot from the swaying deck?” Pelagius asked. “I can shoot from the back of a horse under full gallop”, the Hun said in reply, drew the string to his ear and released an arrow into the blue. Two more arrows left the string before the first had started its descent. Heartbeats later the steersman at the oar of the Vandali boat toppled backwards into the deep, and the man standing next to him slumped forward with two arrows embedded in his torso. The Vandali boat lurched to the side and the oars mangled. Pelagius breathed a sigh of relief. “It is the shortest sea battle I’ve seen”, he said. “We will be well away before they can follow. The gods favour us.” The captain held up both his open palms. “Maybe I was wrong about the dolphins”, Pelagius conceded with a grin. Behind him, on the western horizon, I caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off metal. Chapter 15 – Vandali

Three hours later the longboat overhauled us. Kursik attempted to rid the enemy ship of its steersman and captain, but the Vandali had no doubt spoken to their friends, and the Hun’s arrows thudded into wooden shields. Pelagius was not ready to surrender without a fight. He skilfully manoeuvred the dromon to meet the enemy ship prow to prow. When our dromon was a hundred paces from the approaching ship, Pelagius pulled back the tiller, feigning a pass on the port side of the longboat. At the last moment he pushed the tiller forward, and in response the nimble galley’s prow turned to the steerboard side. “Steerboard rowers, ship oars”, Pelagius boomed. Within five heartbeats the crew on the right side of the dromon extracted their oars through the rowlocks. The portside rowers lifted their oars from the water. “We will rake their oars”, Beremud hissed. “Brace yourselves.” But the captain of the pirate ship was no fool. Moments before impact, the oars of the Vandali longboat were pulled through the rowlocks. Rather than the sound of splintering oars, we heard the jingling of chains as the Vandali pirates cast a multitude of grapnels onto our deck. Some fell away harmlessly, but most of the razor-sharp claws of the grappling hooks sliced into the wood of the galley, securing it to the pirate vessel. Some of the grapnel ropes snapped while others were pulled free by the enormous force, but enough held fast. The dromon came to a halt with a jar and a shudder. Ten paces separated the dromon from the pirate ship. Having shipped their oars, the Vandali formed up in a long line, two men deep, along the steerboard side of the longboat. Their round wooden shields were painted green, and held tight against their torsos in an impenetrable overlapping wall of wood. All wore chain armour and iron helmets - their piercing blue eyes just visible above the rims of their shields. In their right hands they held Roman shortswords which, until recently, probably belonged to Romans. The warriors in the second rank all wielded iron-tipped spears which they held underhand, the hafts resting on the shoulders of the men in the front rank. Opposite the Vandali, on our dromon, the Romans formed up under command of the optio. “See how disciplined they are”, Pelagius said. “These are no pirates - they are soldiers all.” From behind the Vandali warriors a booming voice issued a command, the Germanic words sounding vaguely familiar. In response, warriors behind the men in the shield wall pulled on the ropes attached to the grappling hooks and the boats inched closer together. Asbadus moved to join the Roman shield wall, but Zeno stalled him. “No”, he said. “You will be the reserve. If the Roman line breaks, the four of you can plug the hole.” The dromon and the longboat came together with an audible thud that reverberated through the entire ship. As soon as they were within reach, the front ranks lashed out with their blades and spears. “They outnumber us”, Pelagius said, and pointed with his sword towards the far side of the boat where Vandali warriors were about to jump onto the prow. “If they board and outflank us it will be over in a heartbeat”, he said. Zeno pursed his lips and nodded. Asbadus, Kursik, Beremud and I advanced. Three Vandali managed to board at the stern before we arrived. The legionary anchoring the far side of the Roman line turned to face the new threat, but a spear snaked out from the shield wall on the Vandali boat and pierced his neck. He fell between the rowing benches, clutching his punctured neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood. The Vandali who had boarded were big men, no doubt their fiercest fighters. The pirate in the lead issued a war cry and ran at Asbadus with his shield drawn in tight against his shoulder. In his right hand he hefted a broad-bladed stabbing spear. The warrior feigned a spear thrust and punched offensively with his shield. But he had never faced an excubitor with a bearded axe. Asbadus swung his axe from over his shoulder at the approaching Vandali, seemingly too early. But he allowed the momentum of the axe to continue, took a step to the left, and pivoted on his left heel. The axe completed a full circle, gaining incredible momentum before the blunt side of the head struck the iron boss of the shield. It was a technique the excubitors practised repeatedly – a technique designed to shatter the shield arm of the opponent. The pirate screamed, his shield dropping from his useless arm. Asbadus stepped in, full well knowing the outcome of such a strike. The excubitor’s axe-head accelerated through the air and the blunt end struck the Vandali’s helmet from above with an accompanying sound akin to the ringing of a bell. The warrior crumpled to the ground. Kursik used the distraction to throw his battle-axe, the weapon lodging in the second pirate’s helmet. The Hun sprang forward with the agility of a feline and thrust his sword into the neck of the dazed warrior. I was just in time to see Beremud dispatch the third warrior into the waves with a backhanded sweep of his heavy axe. Without thinking I ran to the side of the dromon and launched myself onto the deck of the enemy ship. I stumbled over a rowing bench, which saved my life, as a spear thrust aimed at my face found nothing but air. I regained my balance, blocked the second thrust with the haft of my axe, and head-butted the Vandali, who wore an open face helmet. He stumbled backwards and the blade of my axe split the chain protecting his shoulder. A second Vandali came at me, but inexplicably came to a halt. I noticed a presence at my side and stepped forward, eager to finish the battle. Asbadus grabbed my harness and dragged me back to the dromon. “Look, Ragnar”, he said, “there are more.” I saw a group of Vandali making their way towards us and we jumped back to the deck of the dromon. I noticed that the legionaries were holding their own against the pirates. Before the Vandali reached us, a booming voice rang out. “Stop this foolishness, stop it now.” Heartbeats later, the Vandali captain issued a command and the warriors took a step backwards. The legionaries followed suit. I turned around, and to my surprise Zeno stood on the deck, attired in the military regalia of a magister militum of the Eastern Empire. From among the Vandali warriors a man stepped forward, lowered his shield and removed his helmet. The warrior was tall, muscular and handsome. His blonde hair was neatly braided and hung to his shoulders. His clothes, armour and sword were of high quality. “I am Thrasamund of the Vandali”, he said in perfect Greek. “Who commands this ship?” Zeno surprised me again by inclining his head to the young warrior. “It is a good to meet you, Prince Thrasamund, favourite grandson of Geiseric, high king of the Vandali.” “And who are you, Roman?” he asked. “I am Flavius Zeno, the faithful servant of Emperor Leo of the Empire of the East who has appointed me as the master of soldiers of the Diocese of Thrace.” A gasp could be heard from the Roman ranks and from Pelagius. Thrasamund inclined his head. “Lord Zeno the Isaurian”, he said. “Your reputation precedes you.” “I have been involved in a misunderstanding with the Goths”, Zeno said. “I am on my way to the Great City to rectify it.” “The Goths are treacherous, lord”, Thrasamund replied. “So I have heard from my grandsire.” “Your grandfather is wise for sure, Prince Thrasamund”, Zeno replied. The exchange was going well. “I wish to have a discussion with you in private”, Zeno added. “I offer you the hand of hospitality”, Thrasamund said. “Join me on my ship, Lord Zeno. I guarantee your safety.” “I accept, Prince”, Zeno replied. “But one of my guards will have to accompany me – they have sworn to keep me safe.” Thrasamund was a Vandali, a barbarian familiar with oaths. He nodded in understanding. “So let them honour their oath”, he said. “Ask the young Herulian to accompany you, seeing that he has visited the longship earlier.” Thrasamund grinned, revealing his attempt at humour. The Vandali warriors sheathed their swords, grounded the hafts of their spears and took a step back. Again the Romans followed suit on the instruction of Pelagius. I allowed my bloodied axe to hang limply from my hand and followed Zeno and the prince as they made their way to the far side of the longboat. “Allow me to be blunt”, Zeno said. “A war with the Eastern Empire is not a war that you can win.” I noticed Thrasamund turn red in the face, but he wisely remained silent. “We have better things to do than waste our gold and the lives of our warriors by sending them against the Vandali. The East has no interest in Carthage, you may retain it. But we need you to keep a tight rein on your warriors who roam the Middle Sea. Then we can enjoy a perpetual peace.” “I will speak with my grandsire, lord”, Thrasamund replied. “I am in your debt, Prince of the Vandali”, Zeno said, and clasped arms with Thrasamund. We made our way back to the dromon. “Time to leave, captain”, Zeno said. Pelagius inclined his head, commanded the legionaries to man the oars, and we rowed away. Zeno lifted his hand and waved to his new friend. Prince Thrasamund responded in kind. Chapter 16 – Long Wall (October 470 AD)

Zeno’s revelation changed the atmosphere on the dromon. An uncomfortable silence settled among the crew, which included Pelagius. They knew that Zeno was one of the most powerful men in the Eastern Empire. He had earned a reputation as a wily general, but also as a ruthless politician. And they feared him. Knowing that the ship carried a person of the importance of Zeno, the crew not only tended to their duties, they performed to a higher degree of efficiency. The rowers started their shift earlier in the morning, rowed until dusk, and shortened their rest periods. Less than a week later, Pelagius came to speak with Zeno. “Lord, we will reach the port of Aenus later today. If you wish, you could go ashore and travel to the City of Constantine along the Via Egnatia.” Zeno waited for him to continue. Pelagius cleared his throat. “Alternatively, lord, we could cross the Melas Gulf, and sail south along the coast of the Chersonese journeying to the Great City through the Hellespont. “I choose the second option”, Zeno said. “Inform the crew that we will be sailing all the way to the capital.” “It will be as you wish, lord”, Pelagius said. Late in the afternoon, three days later, we rounded a headland and the dromon turned north. Pelagius pointed to the cliffs in the distance. “It is the Cape of Helles”, he said, “the start of the Hellespont.” Zeno nodded. “I am weary, captain”, he said. “I wish for you to moor at the port of Elaeus. Send all the men ashore tonight, they have done well and deserve a night in the taverns. On the morrow we will continue our journey.” Pelagius knew better than to gainsay Zeno. “It will be as you wish, lord”, he said. “Make sure they are all back aboard by midnight tonight”, Zeno said. “Or there will be a price to pay.” Pelagius nodded, under no illusion as to who would have to pay the price if the orders of Zeno were not followed to the letter. Before dark the dromon arrived at the port of Elaeus. The legionaries all jumped at the opportunity of a night on the town and I knew that most of them would be deep into their cups soon after disembarking. “Is it wise, lord?” Asbadus said to Zeno. Pelagius nearly choked on his wine. Zeno grinned. “The men will drink themselves into a stupor and boast about the fact that they have Zeno on board their dromon”, he said. This time, Pelagius did choke and Beremud had to hit him on the back with an open palm. “Do not fret, Captain Pelagius”, Zeno said. “I wish for the men to spread the word. The agents of Aspar will surely get wind of this. They will send word of my plans to Constantinople. By tomorrow evening Aspar will know that I am on my way through the Hellespont and he will despatch ships to intercept me.” “How can that be good, lord?” Pelagius asked. “Because my men and I will depart as soon as all the crew are back on board. I will travel to the capital by road while Aspar wastes his time trying to find me in the Hellespont. You, Captain, will head north, but under cover of darkness you will turn around and head back the way you have come.” Later the same evening, when the last of the crew had crawled back aboard, we stole away from the ship. Asbadus had earlier managed to procure two mules, as Zeno insisted that horses would draw attention. It goes without saying that we had stowed our military garb and donned our modest clothes. So it came about that the magister militum of Thrace, four excubitors and two mules, set off to the north during the middle hour of the night.

* * *

We journeyed through the night, walking on wobbly legs due to the long days we had spent at sea. We headed north, along the Roman road. When it became light enough, we noticed that the road was built next to a thick stone wall studded with massive towers. “Why would one wish to build a wall like this?” Kursik asked no one in particular. “To keep the likes of the Huns at bay”, Asbadus said, drawing a scowl from Kursik. “Actually”, Zeno said, “the Greeks built it to keep the Thracians out. But that was a thousand years ago.” He pointed to the wall which disappeared into the distance, following the contours of the land. “They call it the Long Wall”, he said. “It’s no secret why.” In the next settlement, a little port town called Madytus, we purchased a third mule and many rolls of cloth - merchants who travelled without wares were bound to raise suspicion. “Know you of the Greek heroes Hector and Achilles?” Zeno asked while Kursik and Beremud were balancing the load on the mule. “My tutor was a Greek, lord”, I replied. “Hector’s mother, Hecuba, the wife of King Priam of Troy is entombed in this town”, I said, and grinned. “You surprise me, Ragnar the Herulian”, Zeno said, and slapped my back. For many days we travelled north, ever closer to the City of Constantine. At long last we arrived in Heraclea, on the shores of the Propontis, sixty miles from the capital. We found an inconspicuous inn situated in a rougher part of the town and rented a room large enough to accommodate us all. After forcing down a dinner of thin gruel, mouldy bread and sour wine, we retired to our bug- infested accommodation. “Do you think it is wise to go back to the City of Constantine?” Asbadus asked Zeno once we were all seated on the soiled, straw-stuffed mattresses. I noticed a particularly suspicious, reddish-brown stain on Zeno’s mattress. Zeno sniffed the air. “By all the gods, it smells as if someone died in here”, he said. I thought it wise not to mention that a slave was scrubbing the floor with vinegar when I carried in the baggage. “I have decided not to go back to the capital”, Zeno said, stunning us all into silence. “You are right, Asbadus, Aspar is baying for my blood. He will not stop until I am dead. There is only one place where Aspar and his henchmen will not dare to venture. That place is Isauria.” “When do we leave, lord?” Asbadus said, no doubt eager to return to the mountains the Isaurians call home. Zeno gently placed his hand on Asbadus’s arm, an unusual gesture for the magister militum. Although he faced Asbadus, he spoke to us all. “You have done more than I could ever have asked”, he said. “No, you will not accompany me to Isauria. You will go to the Great City. Care for the emperor, and thwart the evil of Aspar.” He turned his head from us as emotion overcame him. After a handspan of heartbeats he spoke again. “Many think that I married Ariadne, the daughter of Leo, to advance my standing. It was true at first, but I had come to love her and I believe she loves me. I would have your oaths that you will protect her and that you will protect my son.” All I wished for was to return to the land of Scandza. I closed my eyes and once again I saw the silver river in the moonlight and I heard the words of Mourdagos echo in my mind. “We are all caught up in the river of life. Only the gods know which way it will flow tomorrow or the day after, but inexorably it will take you to your destiny.” I felt the presence of the gods, breathed deeply and said, “I give you my oath, lord.” Chapter 17 – Gates

Asbadus convinced Zeno to allow us to accompany him to Pylai, a town on the eastern shore of the Propontis. We continued travelling east along the Via Egnatia for three more days. Close to a small, insignificant village, the name of which I have forgotten, we came across a fisherman returning with his catch. We waited patiently until he had vended the fish, then made him an offer that would see him earn more coin in a single day than he would normally earn in a year. Asbadus also made a point of explaining the consequences of refusing to accept our proposal. We set off after dark. The gods sent us a favourable wind and two hours past dawn we reached our destination. Pylai, which means ‘gates’ in the tongue of the Greeks, was the start of the main Roman road leading to Anatolia and Isauria. The port was congested with a multitude of boats arriving from, and departing to the City of Constantine. Beremud volunteered to remain with the boat in case our fisherman had a sudden change of heart and decided to sail away. We left the big Goth with a decidedly nervous peasant. Asbadus, Kursik and I accompanied Zeno to the outskirts of the town. A large open area close to Pylai was dedicated to departing and arriving caravans of merchants. The route was plagued by brigands and only a fool would risk travelling on his own. We asked around and soon found a large group of merchants with many men guarding them. They were about to return to Isauria. Zeno spoke with a well-dressed, rotund man, who appeared to be in charge. For a few coins he purchased the privilege to join the caravan on their trek east. Asbadus tried to convince Zeno to allow him to accompany him on the journey, but the magister militum’s mind was made up. “It will only draw attention to me, Asbadus”, he said. “I will soon return to the City of Constantine, once I have recruited more men.” We all said our goodbyes and returned to where Beremud and the fisherman were waiting. Beremud had purchased a large bluefish, which was slowly grilling over the coals. The big man squatted beside the fire, turned the makeshift wooden spit, and rubbed butter and salt onto the steaming fish. He indicated with his thumb to the grinning fisherman. “Me and Simplicius here have become friends”, he said. “Isn’t it right, Simplicius?” The peasant nodded vigorously. “Told me bluefish is the best”, the Goth said, and held up his forefinger. “But only if it’s fresh – real fresh.” Again Simplicius nodded with gusto. Beremud lifted the fish from the coals, and received an approving nod from the fisherman, accompanied by a gap-toothed smile. “And it mustn’t be overdone, else it becomes dry.” We stared at Beremud in amazement, surprised at his culinary talents that had hitherto remained hidden. In any event, we gorged ourselves on the fresh fish, which, to be honest, was the best I’ve ever had. The wind shifted at midday and on the recommendation of Simplicius we set off during the afternoon. Just after the middle hour of the night the fisherman guided his boat onto a sandy beach a few miles west of Constantinople. “It would be wise to slit his throat”, Kursik said, using the language of the Huns. “Before dawn tomorrow his entire village will know this tale. Soon the men of Aspar will be chasing after Zeno.” I had learned my lesson and I realised the Hun was right, but I did not wish to kill the peasant. I placed my arm around Simplicius with my hand on his neck and guided him a couple of paces away from the boat. I drew my razor-sharp dagger. The fisherman struggled for a heartbeat, but he soon realised it was futile as I tightened my iron grip around his neck. “Simplicius”, I growled. “I will seek you out in a week from now. If you have told anyone of our journey, I will gut you slowly.” I pointed my dagger at his eye and drew the blade down his cheek, drawing blood. “This is a reminder, do not disappoint me, fisherman.” I released him and handed him a purse. “Do not worry, great lord”, he said. “I will keep my word, I will.” We all walked off into the moonlit darkness, leaving Simplicius with his boat. “You are learning”, Kursik said. “He will tell all, of course, but not tomorrow as he would have. His fear will last two, maybe three days – then his stupidity will banish the fear.” I nodded, as I had come to trust the Hun. “In two days, Zeno will be long gone”, I said.

* * *

Emperor Leo read the scroll sealed with the mark of the magister militum of Thrace. “Isauria?” the emperor asked in confirmation. “Yes, lord”, Asbadus said, and inclined his head. “It is a good decision”, Leo said. “But he cannot hide in the mountains for long. I will appoint Zeno as the master of the eastern armies, then he can move to Antioch. There he will be safe.” “What have you done about the traitors?” he asked Asbadus. “We have purged the ranks of the excubitors, lord”, Asbadus replied. “Those who remain are above suspicion. Soon the men whom lord Zeno have recruited in Isauria will arrive. They will replace the traitors.” Leo regarded Asbadus for long. “How did you find the oathbreakers?” Asbadus gestured to Kursik, who stood beside me. “This man is a Hun, lord. He extracted the names from Petrus, the traitor. Kursik’s methods are simple, but above reproach, lord.” Leo studied Kursik, who inclined his head. The emperor dismissed us with a wave of his hand. As we closed the doors behind us Leo broke into a coughing fit. “The emperor is not the man he used to be”, Asbadus whispered. “He has become infirm and bitter.” The Isaurian glanced around to see whether anyone was listening. “The people are turning against him. Only weeks ago he passed a law to abolish races on a Sunday.” Asbadus shook his head in resignation. “It is the doing of Aspar. He is a snake.” We were all still weary from the long journey and said no more while we walked the halls on our way to our room in the barracks of the excubitors. Asbadus had granted us three days leave before we would resume our duties. Beremud and I went to the baths while Kursik ventured into the city to procure a goat. Before long the big man and I were relaxing in the hot water, sipping on cool white wine. I felt the worries of the past months slip away as the wine numbed my mind and the water warmed my body. But rather than feeling content, I felt trapped. Trapped by my own oaths. I sighed. “There will come a time that I will leave you all, Beremud”, I said. “I will never betray Zeno and the emperor, but the gods know, I cannot endure this nest of vipers.” The big Goth reacted in a way I would never have expected. “If you decide to leave, Ragnar”, he said, “Kursik and I will follow you, no matter where you go. No oath to any Roman will prevent us. We can see that the blood of the Khan is strong within you.” “What are you talking about, Beremud?” I said. “I am no leader of men, the wine has muddled your senses.” Beremud shook his head. “Kursik and I have fought for many men who thought themselves leaders of men – they were not. Greatness is a gift from the gods, Ragnar, but no great leader knows it of himself. Other men notice it, and flock to their banner. You have much to learn”, he said, “but one day you will see. Do not think that Kursik and I are fools. Did you not hear the prophecy of the shaman?” “It was meant for the youngest son of the Khan”, I countered, “not for me. I am no son of Attila.” “Are you sure, Ragnar?” he said, and took a long swallow from his cup. “Are you truly certain that you are not the son of the Great Khan?”

* * *

Despite the words of my friend I felt a darkness settle in my soul. More and more I felt drawn to the far north, to the lands of the Svear, but the river of life washed me along in the opposite direction. There was only one solution I could think of. That evening, while all were abed, I walked to the top of the great wall of Theodosius. I drew my dagger and by the light of a waning moon I carved the runes, the god whispers, into the haft of my bearded axe. Ulgin, all powerful, guide me to my destiny. I am Ragnar, son of the Khan. For a moment the blade hovered above my palm, but then I sheathed the dagger. I would not strengthen the magic by rubbing blood into the runes – there was no need for it. Chapter 18 – Ariadne (December 470 AD)

Asbadus assigned only the most trusted of the excubitors to guard the wife and son of Zeno. On a cold and wet day in December, Beremud and I were once again assigned to guard duty at the quarters of Ariadne. None paid the excubitors much heed. We were regarded as pieces of furniture, not unlike a table or a chair, only useful when needed. I stood in the corner of the room while a minder played with the little boy, who could not have been older than three. Beremud guarded the entrance to the princess’s quarters, fifty paces down the hall. Ariadne walked into the room accompanied by a man no older than thirty. I immediately identified him as Patricius, the youngest son of General Aspar. “Your father has agreed to sanction my appointment as Caesar”, he said, and took a deep swallow from a golden vessel. “The only condition is that I renounce the Arian faith in favour of Orthodoxy. As if I care”, he added with a smirk. “Zeno is not coming back, Ariadne, and the emperor is a doddering oldster. The Empire, like you, is in need of a man with vigour.” “Why are you telling me this?” she said. “I will stay true to my husband, no matter what.” Again he smirked. Although we were trained not to involve ourselves with the people we protected, I could not help but experience a feeling of dislike for the man and his arrogance. “I am telling you this because you and I will be married, Ariadne. Your father and the bishop have both agreed to it. You will have to divorce from Zeno, of course, but that is just a formality.” The daughter of Emperor Leo turned white as a bleached tunic. “Zeno will return home”, she whispered. “I love him and he will return.” I did not feel much pity for Ariadne, as I had become increasingly disillusioned when it came to the aristocracy. But then the gods intervened. Leo, the little boy of Zeno, had been listening. “Mommy, mommy. Why is father not coming back?” he shouted, and ran to Ariadne, tears streaming down his face. The boy bumped into Patricius, who spilled red wine all over his priceless embroidered tunic. He slapped the boy with the back of his hand, causing him to stumble backwards and fall facedown on the white marble. When the child righted himself, blood poured from his nose and mouth. “Little Isaurian mongrel”, Patricius spat. After a quick glance at this ruined tunic, he moved to slap the child again. Within less than a heartbeat the red-hot rage boiled over. I covered the three paces that separated me from the fool in two strides. I blocked the blow that was meant for the boy with my left hand and struck Patricius backhanded with my right – a mighty blow. The boiled leather vambrace connected with his face, his nose exploded in a spray of red, and his head rocked back before he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Ariadne and I stood there for a moment, both stunned at what I had done. “I gave your husband an oath to protect you and the boy”, I said, but it sounded like a poor excuse. The princess beckoned for the minder to approach. “Take him to the monastery and nurse his injury”, she said. “Now!” The woman picked the boy up and ran from the room. Then the daughter of the emperor turned to face me. “You have done well, Isaurian”, she said. “I am in your debt.” Her eyes rested on Patricius, who was moaning softly, but still unconscious. “Aspar will want your head for this”, she said. “Leave now, I will speak with my father.” I hurried from the room and found Beremud at the door. “By all the gods, Ragnar”, he said, “what is happening?” I told him. Beremud spat onto the marble floor. “You have done a foolish thing”, he said, and broke into a grin. “It is what I would have done.” He walked in the direction I had come from. “Let us go and slit the bastard’s throat and get rid of the body”, he said. “No”, I replied. “I will not aggravate the situation. Let us speak with Asbadus. He will know what to do.” * * *

Asbadus listened intently while I relayed the tale. The big Isaurian shook his head in resignation. “I have no solution, Ragnar”, he said. “Aspar will have you killed for this. He is not a man plagued by a forgiving nature.” Just then an imperial messenger entered and handed me a folded piece of parchment. I read the missive thrice. “Accompany my messenger to the Baths of Zeuxippus - if you wish to live.” “I have to go”, I said, and followed the man out the door, leaving behind a gaping Asbadus. I was familiar with the spectacular baths situated right next to the barracks of the Isaurians. The colonnaded portico was adorned with towering statues of great men from the past: Julius Caesar, Plato, Aristotle and many more. Eventually we turned a corner and arrived at a wooden door. The man inserted a key into the lock and beckoned me to enter. Inside was a beautifully decorated bath, even grander than the one I was familiar with. I gasped when I noticed the emperor reclining in the hot water. “Few know about this section of the baths, Herulian”, he said, and waved away the secretary, who exited and locked the door behind him. “Aspar has come to see me”, he said. “He expects me to deliver your head to him before the end of the day.” The old man laughed out loud and clapped his hands together. “Oh, how I wish I was there to witness it.” He then turned serious. “I should have you killed for your insolence, barbarian”, he sneered, “but you protected my grandson, whom I love unconditionally. In addition, I have received a missive from my son-in-law. I know that you have assisted him greatly.” The old man smiled. “Truth be told, Herulian, I am tired of the likes of Aspar ignoring my orders. I know they are plotting against me, but they are circumspect and careful, unlike you.” He handed me a scroll. “Go to the Gate of the Lion tonight at midnight. A boat will be waiting for you. The password is ‘Ariadne’.” I was bold enough to ask a boon. “May I take my two companions, lord?” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Do as you see fit, Herulian”, he said. “I am weary now and wish to rest.” When I arrived at our room Kursik and Beremud were still awake. They said naught, waiting for me to share the tale. When I was through, Kursik spoke first. “I will accompany you, Ragnar. Our destinies are entwined – it is the will of the gods.” “I will join you as well”, Beremud said. “Before I go, I wish to say farewell to Leodis”, I said. “Meet me at his room within an hour. From there we will go to the Gate of the Lion.” I left Beremud and Kursik and went to find Asbadus. I told the big Isaurian of my meeting with the emperor. “Emperor Leo loves his grandson”, he said. “That is the reason why you are still breathing, Ragnar. The excubitors guard the Gate of the Lion. I will make sure that I am there by midnight to see you off.” Asbadus insisted on sending four Isaurians to accompany me to the residence of my Greek friend, but I declined. “It will only draw attention”, I said. He relented, but led me through the palace complex and a maze of garden-paths to ensure that I was not followed by the agents of Aspar. Eventually I arrived at the room which Leodis rented. The door was slightly ajar. I should have known that something was amiss. Mayhap it was the stupidity of youth, mayhap it was the events of the last hours that addled my mind. I pushed open the door and walked into the room. In the dim lamplight, I noticed Leodis on the far side of the room, lying facedown in a pool of blood. I was overwhelmed by a strange sensation and the room started to sway, as if I stood on the deck of a ship on the open sea. I dropped to my knees, and the strike of a dagger, which was aimed at the back of my neck, passed harmlessly above my head. I sprung to my feet as the man lunged at my throat. There was no time to draw a weapon. My only option was to use an old Hun trick Sigizan had drilled into my mind. I opened my left hand and used the palm as a shield. The blade passed through the flesh of my palm as if it were butter. I closed my hand over the hilt in a roar of pain. My attacker’s eyes widened as he realised that he had lost his weapon. He tried to pull away, but my left hand was closed firmly over his fist still holding the dagger. I lunged with my right hand, my fingers finding his throat. In that moment, the god came to me, of that I am sure. With the strength of Donar, I closed my fist around the throat of the killer. My hand was strong, like a vice of iron, and I felt my fingers pierce the flesh. With all the strength I could muster I ripped away my hand. The killer crumpled to the floor. With disbelief I stared at my right hand and cast aside the piece of his throat which still remained in my fist. I gently picked up the man who was like a father to me. I cradled the fragile, limp body of Leodis in my arms and sat down on the floor, the dagger still embedded in my hand. A wave of grief overcame me, and I started to shake as tears streamed down my cheeks. Chapter 19 – Gate of the Lion

That is how my friends found me. Kursik gently placed his hand on my shoulder. “Ragnar, Leodis is gone. We have to leave.” From the far side of the room, I heard Beremud curse. “By all the gods, Ragnar, what have you done?” I turned my head and noticed that he was staring at the markings carved into the haft of my axe. “Give me the axe”, I growled. Beremud did as I asked and handed me the weapon. I unsheathed my dagger and carved the rune of Vidarr, the terrible god of vengeance, into the wood of the haft. I sheathed my blade and dipped my right palm into the congealing blood of Leodis, then rubbed it onto the runes. My own blood was still dripping from the dagger embedded in my left hand. I held the tip of the blade above the rune of the god, and the blood of the Khan which flowed in my veins dripped onto the haft, slowly filling the runes. To my left, Kursik and Beremud were watching, their faces contorted in a mixture of awe and horror. “They say that the god-whispers, the runes, can alter destiny”, Beremud said, his voice filled with fear and reverence. For a handspan of heartbeats no one moved, but then Beremud surprised me. He pursed his lips in a show of determination, and drew his blade across his palm. From his closed fist, drops of blood mixed with mine and that of Leodis’s as it flowed into the runes. Kursik followed suit. Later, when the blood had set into the carvings, Kursik held me steady while Beremud drew the dagger from my palm. I wrapped Leodis’s body in sheets and draped the corpse over my shoulder. We had hardly started down the cobbled street when it started to rain. The three of us made our way to the Gate of the Lion in the Sea Wall of Theodosius. For long, none of us spoke, until Beremud broke the silence. “I have seen the killer before, Ragnar. I have seen him with Ardabur, the son of Aspar.” I figured as much and nodded. With a sigh I lowered Leodis’s body so his feet rested on the ground. I was dead tired and weakened from the loss of blood. “Let me carry him”, Beremud said, but I held up an open palm. “No, Beremud, it is something I must do”, I said. “Allow me a moment to catch my breath.” “I will sacrifice to Vidarr”, I said, changing the subject. “I will plead with him to deliver the serpents into my hands.” “I recommend that you sacrifice a goat”, Kursik said. “A chicken will not do.” “It has to be a bull”, the big Goth stated. “Don’t listen to the Hun. The old gods are fickle, Ragnar. The sacrifice has to be worthy.” “I have something else in mind”, I said. “A more substantial offering.” Beremud lifted his eyebrows and wiped the wetness from his face. “Good”, he said. “I will sacrifice Aspar and his son”, I growled. The oil lamps in front of the shops underneath the colonnade provided dim light and I saw the surprise on my friends’ faces. Before Beremud or Kursik could offer a reply, four men burst from an alleyway to the left. I was using my axe as a crutch to lean on, the haft in my right hand. The closest attacker thrust his sword at my chest. The only option I had was to use Leodis’s corpse as a shield. The blow was absorbed by the body, affording me the time to swing my axe in an arc. My attacker was no fool and stepped back, avoiding the blow. Beremud had wounded his opponent, levelling the odds. Kursik held off the third man, but it was clear that the men we faced were no street thugs, they were killers, no doubt sent by Aspar. “You are dead men”, the leader growled in the tongue of the Greeks, although it was clear that he was a Goth. “We will leave this one alive”, I said, to Kursik. “We will send him back to Aspar after we have removed his eyes and his tongue.” “Our master wields more power than the emperor”, the man sneered. “More men are on their way. You will not live to see the morning.” I have learned since that divining the future is best left to the gods and to mortals whom the gods bless with sight. We heard approaching footsteps. “When they come, we form a line”, Beremud whispered, his voice barely audible above the sound of the water spilling from the roofs onto the cobbles. “The gods are merciful – they have granted us the privilege of a glorious death”, Kursik said in the tongue of the Huns. “Do not be concerned Beremud, the sky-father will welcome us if we fight and die at the side of the son of the Khan.” Although his eyes remained on me, the leader of Aspar’s men turned his head to the side to allow his approaching men to hear his words. “We have been waiting for you Varazes”, he said with a smirk, as the approaching footsteps came to a halt. “What took you so long?” “Your men died slowly, Goth pig”, a voice answered. The smirk was still on the man’s face when the blunt end of the axe-head slammed into the side of his helmet. I was forced to blink to clear the fine spray of blood from my eyes. When I regained my vision, a grinning Asbadus stood before us, leaning on his axe. Behind Asbadus were at least ten Isaurians. “Come, we need to make haste, it is almost the middle hour of the night”, he said. I heaved Leodis’s body onto my shoulder and followed the excubitors.

* * *

True to the word of the emperor, a fishing boat was moored close to the rocks, just outside the Gate of the Lion. The captain of the small vessel no doubt wished to complain when I laid the body of Leodis on the deck, but he took one look at my blood-smeared face and armour, and wisely decided to keep his counsel. To my surprise, Asbadus stepped onto the boat. He noticed our enquiring glances. “It has all been arranged”, he said. “Soon you will see.” I was in no mood for talk and sat down with my back against the board of the boat, cradling my head in my blood-smeared hands. Had my carving of the runes caused the death of Leodis? Would Vidarr grant me vengeance, or had I angered the gods? Dark thoughts were milling around in my head when I felt a slight shudder as the hull of the boat bumped against rocks. “Bring your friend”, Asbadus said. “We have completed our journey.” It was the third hour past the middle of the night. Asbadus lit a torch and we followed him along a winding path up a gentle hill. Not long after we arrived at the gates of a fortified villa. “Ariadne”, Asbadus whispered into the darkness. We stood in silence for a handspan of heartbeats until the gates slowly creaked open. A mailed warrior appeared from the shadows of the gatehouse and beckoned us to enter. “Come”, Asbadus said and led us through the gate. Once we were all inside, the gate closed behind us. The courtyard was illuminated by oil lamps affixed to marble-clad walls. It was clear that the property belonged to someone of means. The warrior who had shown us inside approached Asbadus. “He is waiting”, he said, and led us through an arched doorway which appeared to have been hewn from a single slab of yellow marble. Inside, we were greeted by a familiar sight. Zeno reclined on a richly decorated couch while sipping wine from a golden chalice. He stood when he noticed our presence, spread his arms, and approached. “It is good to see you, Asbadus”, he said, and embraced the Isaurian. “We have been concerned for your safety, lord”, the excubitor replied. Zeno turned to face me. “Ariadne has informed me of your actions, Ragnar the Herulian”, he said. “You have caused much trouble.” Then a grin appeared on his face. “And I thank you for it”, he added. Zeno gestured to the body of Leodis draped over my shoulder. “Who is he?” I swallowed, trying to clear my throat as I was suddenly overcome by sadness. “It is Ragnar’s father, lord”, Beremud replied on my behalf when he noticed my predicament. “It is Leodis, the Greek who raised him.” “How did it happen?” Zeno asked. “It was the work of the henchmen of Aspar”, Beremud said. The tears were still flowing down my cheeks, leaving me unable to speak. Zeno allowed me time to compose myself. “I have made an oath of vengeance”, I blurted out. Zeno nodded his understanding and regarded me for long, but offered no reply. He walked back to his couch and took a sip of wine. “We will bury him tomorrow”, he said. “Was he of the Christian faith?” he asked as an afterthought. “Sometimes he was a Christian, lord”, I said, “but he was always a good man.” Chapter 20 – Chalcedon (April 471 AD)

I made my way back down to the villa along a cobbled path meandering through a grove of ancient olive trees. I visited Leodis’s grave daily to pour libations onto his stone. Each day I spoke to him and renewed my oath of vengeance to the gods. I was no stranger to the Christian faith - Leodis was born Christian. He had chosen to make a living among the people the Christians referred to as the ‘non-believers', but he always kept his faith to himself. He was tolerant and respectful of our ways - never did he attempt to force his faith on me. Aspar was also a Christian. But he, unlike Leodis, possessed an inherent evilness. I came to the conclusion that the name of the god a man served was no indication of his disposition. Where the path exited the orchard, it sloped down a gentle hill flanked with fields planted with grain. The absence of trees, combined with the high ground, afforded a view across the blue Propontis. As every day, I stopped for a few heartbeats, my gaze resting on the distant city of Constantinople – the den of Aspar. My hand tightened around my axe and I was comforted by the blood runes carved into the haft. I prayed to the gods to bless me with patience, and turned left at the fork, heading for the villa. I was halfway to the walls when a man, clearly a messenger, came running past me. I too broke into a jog, but messengers are chosen for their swiftness and I was unable to keep up. When I reached the villa, Zeno had already summoned my companions to his quarters. I arrived late, sweating profusely, and short of breath. “Are you familiar with the different doctrines of Christianity?” he asked us while sipping from his cup. Without waiting for a reaction, he continued. “Our emperor, Leo, supports the Orthodox Christians who believe that the Father and the Son are equal. Arian Christians believe that Jesus, the Son, was created by the Father, although he is also God, he is not one with the Father.” Zeno looked at Kursik, Beremud and me in turn, taking in our blank stares. He sighed. “Are you all pagans?” “Yes, lord”, we replied, almost in unison. He shook his head in resignation and waved away his own attempt at explaining the religious schism. “It matters not then”, he said. “I will explain it differently.” “There are two factions among Eastern Christians – Orthodox and Arians. These two factions hate each other. At the moment, the Orthodox are winning as they are supported by the emperor. The bishop and most of the people in the city are Orthodox and most of the men of substance in the empire are Orthodox, or claim to be, anyway.” “Aspar and his sons, like most Goths, are Arians.” “Aspar’s son, Patricius, was forced to renounce his Arianism a while ago. But, as everyone knows, men seldom change their religion within their hearts. They might say that they have converted, but in truth, it is all an act in order to gain some benefit.” “Patricius is one of those men. Although he renounced his faith, he still ended up attending the gatherings of the Arians - in secret of course. But naught stays a secret in the Great City, and his duplicity was exposed. The bishop has marched to the hippodrome and most of the people in the city have followed him, baying for the blood of Aspar and his family. Aspar and his sons have fled to the Church of St Euphemia, which is right here, in Chalcedon.” “I will go tonight, lord”, I said. “I care not if the Church has given them sanctuary.” Zeno held up his hand. “Neither I, nor Emperor Leo can be seen as men willing to commit murder on hallowed ground. We cannot be seen to sanction violence within a church.” My time in Constantinople had taught me to listen intently to the words of men, especially the powerful, as their words were often laced with duplicity. I could not help but notice that Zeno voiced no objection to the murder of Aspar and his sons, but rather to the impression it would create if it were to happen in a church. “Yes, lord”, I said while my mind worked overtime to establish how I could evade his guards and get my hands on Aspar – preferably outside the church. Zeno looked me in the eye. “Do not attempt to have your vengeance this night, Ragnar”, he said. “There is a time and a place for everything.” “Yes, lord”, I replied, sounding all but convincing. He then turned to Beremud and Kursik. “And I expect you to make sure he obeys my orders.”

* * *

When we had returned to our room I closed the door behind us. “I will go alone”, I said. “Do not try to stop me.” Beremud held up his open palm. “My blood, as well as Kursik’s, are mixed with yours in the rune of Vidarr. We have all sworn vengeance. Would you rob us of our oath?” I cast my eyes downward. “You are right”, I said. “Good”, Kursik replied. “Let us discuss how we will have our vengeance. We will go as soon as it is dark.” We spent the afternoon planning the downfall of Aspar and his sons. But when dusk arrived, Asbadus came to fetch us. “Come, Zeno requires our presence.” I shrugged and we followed him to the villa. I expected to find the magister militum reclining on his couch, but he was pacing up and down, his hands clutched behind his back. “The patriarch of the church, Gennadius, visited with Aspar today”, Zeno said. “Aspar and his sons have agreed to return to the city, but only if the emperor guarantees their safety. The emperor has assured them that no harm will come to them. He has invited Aspar and his sons to dine with him in the palace tomorrow evening. I have received word from my people that plans are afoot to assassinate the emperor during the banquet.” He drank from his cup and continued. “The fate of the Empire hangs in the balance. If Leo dies, Patricius will be emperor. Soon after, the Goths will take control, and darkness will descend over the lands of Rome. I am no Roman, but I appreciate the benefits brought by civilisation. The Goths’ only wish is to destroy all that is Rome.” He breathed deeply. “Desperate times call for desperate measures”, he said. “I have arranged for us to return to the city under cover of darkness.” Zeno was no fool. He turned to me with a half-grin. “That means that you will have to let go of whatever plans you have concocted, Herulian.” “Lord?” I replied, but he waved away the lie. “The boat is waiting”, he said. “Asbadus, accompany Ragnar and his friends. Make sure they do not get lost. We depart within the hour.” I was nearly out of earshot when Zeno called me back. “A moment, Ragnar”, he said. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes the gods know what is best and they guide us in accordance. Do not despair.” He leaned in closer and whispered into my ear. “Be patient, she will send for you.”

* * *

It was not yet the middle hour of the night when the three of us retired to our soft, down-filled mattresses in the barracks of the excubitors. We spoke in hushed tones using the tongue of the Huns. “Asbadus told me that we will not be guarding the emperor this evening”, I said. “Zeno knows that I have sworn an oath to kill Aspar.” “What are we to do?” Beremud asked. We lay in silence for long. I did not share the words of Zeno as I knew the fickleness of the upper classes. “I will pray to Vidarr to assist us this night”, I said. “Mayhap I will sacrifice tomorrow morning.” “We need all the help we can get”, Beremud said. “It has to be a bull at the very least.”

* * *

Asbadus was relieved to see us leave the city early the following morning. I harboured no doubts that he knew why Kursik led a bull. Hours later, before the middle hour of the day, we returned to the barracks. When dusk arrived I had given up hope, but soon after, Asbadus appeared in the doorway of our room. “Don your armour”, he said. “Lady Ariadne has requested our presence in her quarters.” He narrowed his eyes, as he must have noticed my lack of surprise. “Do you know of this, Herulian?” he asked. “Know of what?” I replied, and pulled my chain mail over my head and turned my back to allow Kursik to fasten the straps. We made our way to the far side of the palace, to the quarters of the princess. Asbadus dismissed the excubitors guarding the door. “You are relieved”, he said. Ariadne, daughter of Leo, waved the slaves and servants from her rooms. I noticed that Zeno’s son was nowhere to be seen. “I see that you wonder about the boy”, she said, and met my eye. “Soon after the incident of last year, I was forced to wed Patricius”, she said. “I have sent my son away to a safe place.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “The time for honeyed words has passed”, she said. “The palace is riddled with secret passages and escape routes. Only the emperor and his family know of their existence. I will guide you to the chamber where my father is dining with Aspar and his sons.” “What do you wish of us, lady?” Asbadus asked. I placed my hand on the Isaurian’s shoulder. “We will do that which is long overdue, my friend.” “Come”, Ariadne said. “No more talk. I have waited long enough.” She took an oil lamp from the table and swept aside a rich tapestry hanging from the wall to reveal an intricate mosaic. Her hand came to rest on the head of some Roman god wielding a spear. I noticed the exertion on her face as she pushed with all her might. A heartbeat later the marble slab pivoted on concealed hinges. The four of us followed Ariadne into the shadows. Chapter 21 – Vidarr

It was clear that Ariadne knew the passage like the back of her hand. She turned right, left, then right again before descending a steep flight of stairs hewn from solid rock. After another few turns and stairs I was completely lost, knowing that we would never be able to return without a guide. She must have sensed our apprehension. “I will not leave you to your fate”, she said. “I played here when I was a girl. I will never lose my way.” We walked for what seemed like miles. I gripped the haft of my axe and was comforted by the feel of the runes roughly carved into the wood – I was certain that the gods were guiding me to my destiny. Ariadne held up an open palm. She blew out the oil lamp, plunging all into pitch blackness. I heard a soft creak and a concealed door opened, allowing us access into an alcove. The recess was shielded from a private dining room by a thin silk veil. I hesitated at the doorway, but Ariadne set us at ease. “There is much noise and light in the chamber”, she said. “No one can see inside this room.” We followed her into the alcove. Many small amphorae lined the walls up to the ceiling. All the vessels were carefully placed on a bed of straw on beautifully crafted wooden shelves. “It is the best vintages the Empire has to offer”, she explained. “The wine is priceless - few men are allowed in here.” Our attention shifted to the happenings inside the dining chamber. The room was small and intimate compared to the great banquet halls of the palace – only twenty paces long and ten paces wide. Small, round tables, heaped with food, stood in the centre of the room. Three couches were arranged around the tables. The emperor reclined upon an embroidered purple couch, slightly larger than the rest. Aspar and his sons, Ardabur and Patricius, shared a couch while a man in rich robes, who I assumed was the Patriarch Gennadius, had a couch to himself. No guards were posted on the inside of the room. I assumed that it was a gesture of reconciliation on the part of Leo, as Aspar feared the excubitors. “Leo”, Aspar said. “You and I are both old men, so I will be frank. I am the one who gave you power. You were but a minor general.” Aspar took a sip from his golden chalice. “Why do you do your utmost to stand in my way at every opportunity?” Leo drank deeply, savouring the wine, and smiled. “Aspar, my old friend”, he said. “You should have known better than to raise a Bessian to the purple. Maybe another would have been willing to stand by while you slowly deliver the Empire into the hands of the barbarians. You made a poor choice, Aspar. I am no one’s puppet.” Gennadius fiddled with his robe while Aspar’s sons eyed Leo with undisguised hatred. Aspar held up his open hand in a gesture of peace. “You believe the rumours spread by Zeno the Isaurian, my friend?” Aspar said. “He blackened the name of my son Ardabur by forging documents. Then you send him to stand up to Anagastes, but he runs away to the east. He is the traitor, Leo, and he is a coward. Open your eyes. My sons and I are here, supporting you, yet you still believe the words of Zeno?” Leo smiled disarmingly and handed a scroll to Aspar. “I received this from your General Anagastes a few days ago, Aspar”, he said. “I trust that you recognise his seal.” Aspar read the words in silence, then turned to Ardabur. “Is this true, son? Were you the one to instigate the revolt of Anagastes?” The son of Aspar contemptuously cast the scroll into a nearby brazier. While the writing went up in flames he stood, no doubt livid. “I will no longer play your games, Father”, he growled. “I will no longer take the blame for your actions. This ends today.” Gennadius jumped to his feet and spoke out of turn. “If you would only repent and cast aside the Arian heresy and embrace the true faith.” For a handspan of heartbeats all stared at the priest until the Goth general broke the silence. “Sit down, priest”, Aspar growled. “This is between the emperor and me – do not get ideas above your station or I will destroy you.” The patriarch sat down and a moment later Patricius jumped to his feet, drawing a concealed shortsword from his robes. I had seen enough. I pushed the silk veil aside and stepped from the alcove. In the same instant I drew back my axe and hurled it at Patricius. I stepped to the side to make room for my companions and two more axes spun through the air. Leo stared at the carnage and clapped his hands together in undisguised delight. “I have waited for this for so many years”, he said. “But I fear there will be consequences.” Gennadius was huddled into a ball on the far side of his couch, swaying to and fro. Leo placed his hand on the patriarch’s shoulder. “I will confiscate Aspar’s vast estate and give it to the church”, he said, which seemed to comfort the shaking Gennadius. But my work was not finished. I stepped forward, placed my boot on Patricius’s chest for leverage, and removed my axe. I swung the axe overhead three times and took the heads of the snakes. “It is done”, I said. I turned my back to the emperor and stepped into the alcove, leading the way. And, of course, Ariadne was gone and the door shut. Chapter 22 – Family

I rushed from the alcove just in time to see Zeno burst into the chamber at the head of a century of legionaries. Relief flooded over me. The feeling lasted less than a heartbeat. Zeno pointed at the four of us, bright blood still dripping from our axes. “Arrest the murderers”, he said, his voice cold and aloof. Within a heartbeat the world that we had built collapsed and was replaced by a feeling of utter despair. We gaped at the magister militum, who escorted Leo and the patriarch from the room without looking over his shoulder. We discarded our weapons and soon strong hands seized us and manhandled us to the holding cells underneath the palace. For long we sat in silence, each of us trying to make sense of the happenings. Asbadus gripped the thick bars of the cell and for a brief moment I thought he might just be able to snap the iron. But he was only human. “I have served him faithfully for so many years”, he growled. “Why would he do this?” The grating sound of a key turning in the iron lock of the thick wooden door put an abrupt end to our discussion. A person of small stature, whose features were hidden by a hooded cloak, entered the dungeon followed by two men. Both were tall and carried themselves with authority. One had blonde hair while the other had the dark hair and a thick beard so typical of the Isaurians. The two men turned to face the hooded figure and inclined their heads in respect. “Zeno is not emperor yet”, a woman’s voice said from underneath the hood. She reached out and gently placed her hand against the blonde man’s cheek. “May God protect you, brother.” She turned on her heel and disappeared through the open door. “Which one of you is called Ragnar?” the dark-haired man growled. I took a step forward, towards the iron bars which separated us from the visitors. “It is me, lord”, I said. “Do you know of a man named Trokondas?” he asked. “Yes, lord”, I said. “Do you know where to find him?” the blonde man added. “Yes, lord”, I said. “Come with us, Ragnar”, the first man commanded. I took a step back to stand among my companions. “I will go nowhere without these men, lord”, I said, and folded my arms across my chest. The dark-haired man was clearly not accustomed to being defied. His hands clenched into fists and he was all but amused at my words. For a moment he reminded me of my mentor Trokondas. The blonde man placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Zeno is the only other one who knows”, he said, “and he will never tell.” The dark-haired man produced a key and unlocked the gate with a sigh. “Very well then”, he said. “Come with me if you value your lives.” Our weapons were returned and we were all given long, black, woollen cloaks which we donned over our armour. The two men clasped arms at the door. “May the gods protect you”, the blonde man said, and walked off with purpose. “Come”, the dark-haired man growled. “We need to leave.” In a daze we followed him to a gate. Many legionaries guarded the entrance, but our rescuer approached the soldiers with a confident gait. When he was close, the men came to attention. “We are ready to ride, general”, an officer said. The dark-haired man nodded to his men. “Good”, he said. We followed him outside where we were given horses. “There is much confusion in the city tonight”, he said to his men as he mounted. “We will advance on the road that passes the Cistern of Aetius and leave through the Gate of Charisius. Once outside the walls, we will turn south, towards Heraclea.” We trotted along the Mese, the wide main road, where men scurried to get out of our way. It was still dark, but word of the events of the night was spreading like wildfire, causing men to spill from their houses onto the streets. The excubitors guarding the gate in the wall blocked our passage. The dark-haired man handed a scroll to the officer in charge, who saluted and hurried to open the gates. Soon after, we left the Great City in our wake and thundered south with the walls of Theodosius on our left. We rode in silence for long, travelling west along the Via Egnatia towards Heraclea. When the sun crested the eastern horizon behind us, we stopped to water the horses at a stream. All of us were confused by the happenings of the last hours. I stood beside Beremud, Kursik, and Asbadus while our horses drank their fill. “Who is he?” I asked. Asbadus was the one who answered. “I have heard of him”, he said. “But I have never laid eyes on him before. Trokondas has told me stories of him. His name is Flavius Illus.” My curiosity was aroused. “Does Trokondas know him then?” I asked. “I believe he does”, Asbadus said. “He is his brother.”

* * *

Only a Hun riding a Hun horse could possibly complete the journey to Heraclea in a single day. When the third hour of the afternoon arrived we were all exhausted, except maybe Kursik, who was a purebred Hun. It mattered little because the Roman horses could travel no further. General Illus gave the order to halt. I noticed two men, whom I believed to be scouts, leave the road and take their horses south in the direction of the sea. “These horses are muscular and pleasing to the eye”, Kursik said when he removed the saddle from his mount. “But the gods know, they are like pampered highborns compared to the horses of the Huns. Hun horses may not be pretty, but they are hardy, like warriors.” I nodded my agreement, as I had grown up with the tough mounts of the Steppes. The scouts returned soon and reported to Illus, who took his spent horse by the reins and led us off the Roman road. We waded through the water, arrayed in a long line, the stream masking the tracks. A quarter of a mile to the south, where the stream spilled into the turquoise waters of the Propontis, we came upon a fishing village, thirty paces from the high-water mark. A group of twenty peasants huddled close together in front of their huts. There were only five men amongst them, the rest being women and children. When Illus approached, a fisherman stepped forward and went down on one knee. “Lord”, he said. “How may we serve you?” Illus drew his sword. “We wish to purchase fish”, he said. The peasant’s courage abandoned him and he collapsed onto both knees. While staring at the sand in front of him he pointed at two boats pulled up onto the beach. “We have been blessed with a bountiful catch, we were. For two gold coins, lord, you may have it all.” Illus placed the sword underneath the fisherman’s neck. “One gold coin and you and your people will cook it for us.” “Yes, lord. It is good, lord”, he stammered. “My men will count how many of you there are”, the Isaurian said. “If there is one missing tomorrow at sunrise, you will pay dearly. None must leave the beach.” “None will leave, lord. I promise lord, they won’t be leaving, lord”, the fisherman replied. Kursik, who stood beside me, nudged me with his elbow. “He sure knows how to deal with peasants, Ragnar”, he whispered. “You could learn from him.” Later that evening, after the sun had dipped under the western skyline, we sat on the soft sand of the beach around a blazing fire. Kursik admonished me for my behaviour. “Why did you buy the firewood from the peasants, Ragnar?” he asked. “You could have taken it.” “A few coppers will not make us poorer”, I said. Kursik sipped his wine and shook his head in resignation. “Why would Zeno do this?” Asbadus said. “Why would he betray us?” I recalled the words of my mentor and a thought came to mind. “Trokondas told me that many years ago he had stumbled upon a messenger who carried letters from Aspar’s son to the Sassanians - letters proving treason. For this reason, he was forced to flee. Yesterday before we killed Aspar I heard him claim that they were forgeries. Is it not possible that the letters were forged? Mayhap Zeno sent Trokondas away to hide his own deceit.” “And the whole thing with Anagastes”, Asbadus said. “Maybe, just maybe, Zeno had arranged it all to discredit Aspar.” Then Beremud said the words that I feared. “And maybe Zeno had your father killed.” I went cold on the inside when I realised the enormity of his words. Did Zeno use us to further his own goals? Did he use us to kill Aspar and his sons? From the darkness a peasant boy appeared bearing a platter heaped with fresh grilled fish. “My father told me to serve you first, lord”, he said. “You were the only one to pay us for the wood.” I glanced at the Hun, who scowled at the boy’s words. “Maybe Zeno did not wish for us to kill Aspar”, Kursik said and helped himself to a fish. “Maybe he abandoned us to our fate because we disregarded his commands. Remember, he was the one who did not wish for us to be close to Aspar while he dined with the emperor. It was princess Ariadne who summoned us, not Zeno.” “Who was the woman who opened the door of our cell?” I asked. “It was the empress, the wife of Leo”, Asbadus said. “I recognized her voice. And the blonde general is her brother, general Basiliscus. Both Zeno and Basiliscus hated Aspar.” I held up both my open palms. “Let us talk of this no more, friends. We will never be able to unravel this tangled web of lies. I know not of you, but I will no longer be a part of this nest of writhing vipers.” “We are with you, Ragnar”, Kursik and Beremud said as one. “I too have had enough”, Asbadus said. “But I do not know another life. Where will we go?” I gestured with my head towards Illus who was making his way towards us. “I believe we will soon know what the gods have planned for us.” Chapter 23 – Venezia (June 471 AD)

“Many Isaurians will flock to the banner of my brother Trokondas”, Illus said, and helped himself to a fish. “How come you were served first?” he added with a frown. I ignored his question. “And you wish for us to bring Trokondas back to the Great City, lord?” I said. “Yes”, he said. “And he is Lord Trokondas to you.” “No”, I replied. “He has forbidden me to call him lord.” Illus’s lips tightened, but I knew that he was in need of our services so he issued a curt nod. “Very well then”, he said. “Where is my brother?” he asked. “He is on the Island of Scandza, lord”, I replied. “I have heard of the distant shores of Scandza”, he said. “It is close to the very edge of the world. Many have travelled there, but few have returned. I will provide you with twenty of my best men, Herulian. Take them with you and bring back my brother.” “Your men will help us naught, lord”, I said. “To reach the lands of the Svear, we will have to travel along the Amber Road through the lands of the Rugii, the Heruli, the Scirii and the Longobardi. Those lands are not meant for men of Rome, lord.” He gestured to us, still wearing the armour of the excubitors. “You don’t have the look of barbarians about you”, he said. I banged my hand against my chest. “In here, lord, we are barbarians. Once we have stacked the armour of the excubitors onto our packhorses and we use the words of the Germani, we become barbarians again. We will be welcomed in the halls of my kin”, I added, “but your men will be in mortal danger.” “How then will I know that you will return with my brother?” he said. “We will give you an oath, lord”, I said. “We will deliver the message, but whether we return will be the decision of Trokondas. We will not attempt to drag him back against his will.” Illus sighed. “For long, Zeno was a good friend”, he said. “To me and to Trokondas. But something has changed. He is not the man he used to be. He has become obsessed with power, and he will stop at nothing to reach his goal. I need my brother’s help for the sake of the Empire.” I swallowed the rising bile. More struggles for power, more backstabbing, more personal vendettas - that was all I heard in his words. But I kept my counsel and nodded. “I understand, lord.” “We will make sure you board a vessel in Heraclea, Herulian”, he said, and stood to leave. “From there, you are on your own.” Much later, when all had retired to their furs, I was the only one still awake. I put more wood onto the fire and took the haft of my axe in my hand. With much care I drew my dagger across the blood runes. The fine wood shavings flared in the flames as they were consumed by the fire spirits. An hour later no trace of the runes remained.

* * *

Did Zeno fail to catch us on the road to Heraclea? I doubt that he failed. Zeno rarely failed. I wish to believe that he did not even try – that he left us to our fate. In any event, three days later we sailed from the harbour of Heraclea aboard a merchant vessel headed for the port of Venezia in Italia, the southernmost city on the Amber Road. It is not a journey I remember particularly well. Although the weather was favourable, my three companions failed to escape the sickness of Ran. The first week they did little more than cling to the wooden railing to rid themselves of their last attempt at a meal. I spent my time speaking with the crew and learning about ships and the sea. We rarely left the sight of land, apart from when we sailed across the Aegean from Ephesus to Athens. The area is littered with Islands, but between the islands of Ikaria and Mykonos there is a stretch of open sea that took the most part of the day to cross, even with a favourable wind at our back. The hold was filled with blocks of marble destined for Ravenna, and the captain was in a great hurry to complete the journey without unnecessary delay. This meant that we only stopped at a port long enough to take on supplies. Although we never sailed during the night we rarely overnighted at a recognized port, but rather anchored within the shelter of some bay. I believe this was by design as only two sailors absconded during the trip. We sighted our destination, the port of Venezia, on the afternoon of the thirty-eighth day after setting sail from Heraclea. The treachery of Zeno had hurt us deeply, but the long journey allowed us time to heal. When we eventually set foot on land, we were all excited to travel north. I was even more eager than the rest as I would return to the lands of my birth and maybe, if the gods willed it, to Unni and Trokondas. Illus had already paid the captain before we departed from Heraclea. While the crew laboured to load supplies, we gathered our belongings and said our farewells. It was too late in the day to start our journey north, so we ventured into the town to find a suitable caupona where we could sup and enjoy a good night’s sleep. The captain had recommended a place not far from the port, called the Mangy Mule. He insisted that the name had no bearing on the quality of the establishment. As we approached the caupona favoured by our captain, a man staggered from the dimly lit interior and tried to steady himself against the outside wall. The stones did not provide the required stability and a heartbeat later he collapsed facedown into the gutter at the side of the road. From inside emanated a raucous which seemed to be a mixture of laughter, shouts, cheering and someone, maybe a woman, screaming. “Looks like as good a place as any”, Beremud said, and took a step towards the door, no doubt eager to partake in whichever form of debauchery that was available to patrons. Kursik shrugged and followed the Goth inside. Asbadus and I stopped at the cracked marble-topped counter adjacent to the door. A man, who looked to be in his forties, greeted us with a smile. His trained eye noticed the heavy chests at our feet. “How many nights will you be staying?” he asked. “We need a room for four”, Asbadus said. “For two nights.” “You are fortunate”, the man said. “I have a room available.” “Show us”, Asbadus growled. The man gestured for a servant to pick up a chest and we followed him through the mass of people to a door at the back of the building. The innkeeper, who was also carrying a chest, struggled with a heavy limp. He gestured towards his bad leg. “My sire was a Burgundian”, he said, “and my mother, she was a Roman. Have you heard ‘bout the great battle of Maurica?”, he asked. I nodded and said, “I have heard of it.” Leodis had told me of the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields, or Maurica as some called it, where the great Roman general Aetius and his allies had fought the horde of Attila to a bloody stalemate. “Got this standing in the ranks of the men of Gundioc, king of the Burgundians”, he said with pride in his voice. “I stood at my father’s side. We were allies of the Romans that day, you know. I got two Hun arrows in the leg”, he said, and pulled up his dirty braccae to reveal scars which once must have been horrible wounds. “My father wasn’t so fortunate”, the innkeeper said with a grim smile. “He got an arrow through the head.” I was not interested in the ramblings of the man, but he kept talking in spite of my silence. “Ever heard of Attila?” he asked. I decided to try another approach and shook my head. “Let me tell you then”, he said, excited to find a new reason for talking. “Bloody bastard, that one”, he said. “May the gods curse him and all of his children for eternity.” “My father was a Hun”, I replied. The man slapped me on the back with his free hand. “Course he was”, he said. “I can see it in your eyes. Not all of the Huns are bastards, you know. Some of them are good honest people, like I’m sure your father was.” I was saved by our arrival at the door of the room. “Here we are”, he said, and slammed his shoulder into the door, which flew open. “Gets stuck sometimes”, he said. “That will be one gold solidus for the four of you. Best price you will get in Venezia”, he said. “Ever since General Ricimer has invited the northern bar… er warriors to join him, men have been flooding through the town on their way to Mediolanum.” “Only if you provide us with enough food and wine for seven days on our journey north”, Asbadus replied. For a brief moment the innkeeper was stunned, not knowing what Asbadus was talking about. Asbadus noticed his confusion. “Do you think me a fool?” he growled. “One gold solidus for the room for two nights, including food and wine. When we depart, you will provide us with a week’s food and wine rations. All is included in the price.” “Then why did you not just say so in the first place?” he said. “Of course that is in order, good sir.” He held out his open palm. “But I insist on payment upfront, though.” Asbadus narrowed his eyes, dug into his purse and placed a gold coin in the innkeeper’s hand. The Burgundian rubbed the gold coin between his thumb and forefinger. “I can see that you are no strangers to war”, he said. “If you are in need of employment, I can point you in the right direction.” “That won’t be necessary”, I said. “We have business in the north.” “Pity”, he said, and turned to leave. Chapter 24 – Amber Road

I was not surprised that, in spite of the rush of people, Beremud and Kursik had managed to secure a table in a far corner of the inn. A barmaid handed each of my two friends a wooden plate with two thick sausages, a small loaf of fresh bread and a round of cheese. “White or red wine?” the barmaid asked. “We will all have a cup of your finest red”, Beremud said in his best attempt at Latin. “Thank you, Asselina, you are most kind”, he added, and winked at the girl. I was impressed with how quickly Beremud had ingratiated himself with the pretty serving girl. Soon Asselina returned, and Asbadus and I each received a plate of the same fare accompanied by a cup of passable red wine. The food was basic, yet delicious, especially after our long stint on the merchant ship. I took a bite from the fatty sausage and swallowed it down with a mouthful of red. “Couldn’t help but hear what the locals were discussing”, Beremud said while chewing on a piece of soft cheese. “The Western emperor, Anthemius, and his master of soldiers, Ricimer, has had a fallout.” “Why?” Asbadus asked. “Seems like Ricimer arranged the murder of the emperor’s favourite general, and in turn the emperor had Ricimer’s biggest supporter, Romanus, executed”, Beremud said. “Apparently he was found guilty of sorcery.” Asbadus waved away Beremud’s words. “Sounds like a repeat of Aspar and Leo”, he said. “Best ignore it.” But Beremud continued nonetheless. “Ricimer’s right-hand man, Flavius Odovaker, is in town, recruiting warriors to their banner.” “I know the Scirii prince”, I said. “In the northern lands he is called Ottoghar.” “But does he know you?” Asbadus asked. “He should”, I said, and took a bite from the spicy sausage. “He owes me a life.”

* * * Flavius Odovaker stared at me without recognition in his eyes. “Do I know you, Herulian?” he asked in the tongue of the Romans. “My men tell me that you claim to know me.” “My grandsire is Abdarakos, lord”, I said. He studied me intently. “Ragnaris the cripple?” I heard him whisper to himself. “The gods have healed me, lord”, I said. “Where have you been all these years?” he asked. “I have been an excubitor for the last two years, lord”, I said. “The elite guard to Leo the Thracian?” he asked. “Yes, lord”, I said. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I am on my way to the lands of the Heruli, lord”, I said. “I heard that you seek warriors from the northern lands. If you wish I could pass on the message to my grandsire. Mayhap there are warriors who will answer your call.” He switched to the tongue of the Heruli. “There is no need, Ragnaris”, he said. “I plan to travel to the lands of the Heruli, to speak with your grandsire in person. There are many things that I wish to discuss.” I inclined my head. “When do you leave, Lord Ottoghar?” I asked. “Tomorrow”, he said. “And you, Ragnaris, will travel with me.” “I will, lord”, I replied. “But I am called Ragnaris no longer.” “Give me your name then”, he said. “My name is Ragnar”, I replied.

* * *

My Hun friend and I spent the remainder of the day in an effort to procure eight horses for the journey north. Kursik turned out to be a stickler when it came to buying horses. By early afternoon we had failed to find a horse which my Hun friend deemed worthy of our gold. At long last we arrived at the premises of a horse trader just north of Venezia – the last one we had not visited. While the Hun inspected the animals, I sat down in the shade, leaning with my back against a wall. I was relieved to see the Hun grunt his approval after looking at the teeth of the first animal. Next, he thoroughly felt each leg and lifted the feet to inspect the hooves. When he was done, Kursik vaulted onto the back of the animal and rode around the courtyard. It was dusk when he selected the eighth animal. Kursik managed to negotiate a reasonable price, which included saddles. We had no stabling available and after giving the trader a small deposit, we returned to the inn. “Looks to be fine animals”, I said when we strolled from the yard. “Maybe better than walking”, was his only reply. In any event, Asbadus and Beremud had not been idle either. They had purchased a used goat-skin tent and no doubt threatened the innkeeper into keeping his promise of supplying us with provisions for a week. Soon after we sat down at a table at the back of the inn, Asselina served us the customary fare. To our surprise, Beremud received an extra piece of sausage and his cup was larger than ours, although not by much. Asbadus raised an eyebrow, which Beremud met with a smile. “Can I help it if she likes me?” he said, and stuffed a large piece of sausage into his mouth. Asbadus took a swallow from his cup. “I have spoken much with traders today”, he said. “Traders who travel north along the Amber Road. The Rugii are no longer north of the Danube. They are moving south, slowly swallowing the old Roman lands. Some of the larger towns and cities have chosen to ally themselves with the Rugii.” He took a bite from the fresh loaf and washed it down with a gulp of wine. “Why would the Romans be willing to side with the Rugii?” I asked. “They live in fear of the Heruli who raid Roman lands at will”, Asbadus answered. “At least the Rugii worship the Christian God, like the Romans do. Your kin, the pagan Heruli, have little sympathy for the Romans who have grown soft, protected by their walls of stone. Many of the Romans living north of the passes in Noricum are fleeing south to the lands of Italia. They cannot bear to endure the destruction of what they have rebuilt after Attila destroyed all.” “It is good that we travel with Lord Odovaker”, Beremud said and absentmindedly rubbed his tattooed cheek. “Men bearing the mark of the Heruli will not be welcomed in Roman Noricum.” Early the following morning, long before first light, we collected the horses from the trader and returned to the inn to pack our belongings. By the third hour of the day we were ready, waiting outside the town on the road leading east towards Aquileia and the passes. We did not have to wait long for the Romans to arrive. The column briefly slowed down to allow us to join their ranks. Odovaker motioned for me to ride beside him. The Scirii prince led a mounted company of a hundred men. Most had the look of barbarians about them, but a few were clean-shaven like the Romans of old. “Most are Scirii, Burgundians or Visigoths”, he said when he noticed that I was studying the men. “But some might be Roman.” He gestured with his thumb to a clean-shaven warrior but ten paces behind us. “Julius”, he shouted. “Yes, lord”, the warrior answered. “Are you a Roman, Julius?” Odovaker asked, the jest clear in his voice. “Believe I am, lord”, Julius said. “My Roman mother named me after Divius Julius, the great emperor. She said that my Roman father’s great grandfather’s grandfather was a bastard of Caesar’s.” For a moment he seemed to be deep in thought. “But her boyfriend was a Frank, so I can’t be sure, lord.” All burst out laughing, and a comrade slapped Julius on the back. “I thought you said that her boyfriend was a Scirii?” Odovaker said. “He was”, Julius confirmed, “but her favourite boyfriend was a Frank.” “Julius drinks like a Frank, lord”, someone shouted from behind. “So he must be a Frank.” The prince turned his horse and waved away the continued banter of his men. “Rome is changing, Ragnar”, he said, his demeanour suddenly serious. “Julius was jesting, of course, but very few men in the armies of Rome are purebred Romans. Most are men of the tribes.” He stifled a laugh. “Come to think of it, most of the men of the tribes are mongrels as well. My father is the Scirii king, but my mother is a Thuringian. What does that make me? You, as well, are a mix of the blood of the Heruli and the Huns.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure none were listening. “Leo, the Eastern Emperor, comes from Bessian stock. The mighty General Zeno is an Isaurian. There is only one tie that binds us, Ragnar. We all wish for Rome to survive. Without Rome there is only darkness, that we all know.” “Yet, Lord Ottoghar”, I said, “Rome seems to be intent on destroying itself.” Odovaker sighed. “In that, Ragnar”, he said, “you are not wrong.” “A wise man once told me, lord, that the difference between right and wrong is not easy to divine. Best is to choose a side, for better or worse.” Odovaker laughed out loud. “That man is wise indeed”, he said. “I have chosen to support Ricimer. Many label him a barbarian, but he has defeated more of the enemies of Rome than anyone I know. He was a prodigy of the great Aetius, the Roman who was raised on the Sea of Grass.” “You know, Ragnar”, he continued. “When your grandfather, Attila, stood on the cusp of victory over the Romans, the Visigoths and the Burgundian, to name but a few, fought side by side with Aetius. Afterwards, the tribes broke the power of the Huns forever. Not the Romans, but the Germani tribes broke the Huns at Nedao. There the bravest of us tore ourselves apart. Your grandfather Abdarakos fought alongside my sire that day. And did Rome reward them for scattering the Huns? Did they grant them land in gratitude?” He issued a humourless laugh. “No, of course not. The Romans still wished for the barbarians to call them lord and bow the knee to them.” “Is Rome doomed?” I asked. “There is still hope for the Western Empire”, Odovaker said. “But there is only one way. We should give Gaul to the Visigoths and Burgundians and Noricum to the Rugii - they are bound to take it anyway. In return for these lands we will have the support of the warriors of the tribes, who we will use to keep Italia safe. When Geiseric the Vandal, the old genius, dies, we will wrest Africa from the hands of his useless sons.” “But the Roman emperors, the likes of Anthemius, think that they are Caesars, like the great Augustus and Aurelian. He believes that he can reconquer Gaul and Africa. In the process he wastes mountains of gold and throws away the lives of thousands of Romans. They all think that being Roman means that one must have the blood of the emperors of old coursing through one’s veins.” Odovaker shook his head. “No, my young friend, Ricimer and I am more Roman than they are, because we wish for the Western Empire to survive. These men who call themselves emperors only wish to cover themselves in glory, yet all they find is defeat and death.” The Scirii prince’s words struck a chord. “Your words are wise, lord”, I said. “It is important for Rome to survive. Without Rome, there would be no Amber Road and without the amber, what would the Heruli do? Without Rome where would our young warriors go to fill their pockets with Roman coin?” We rode in silence for a while. “Is there anything I can do to further your cause, lord?” I asked. “Before you go north, help me to persuade Abdarakos to provide me with warriors”, he said. “It will greatly strengthen our hand.” Chapter 25 – Rugii (July 471 AD)

Thanks to Kursik and his keen eye for horseflesh, we kept up with Odovaker and his men. Early in the afternoon on the fifth day after departing from Venezia, after an uneventful crossing of the mountains, we descended from the high ground of the passes to the foothills of the Alps. Lush forests of spruce and larch grew on the slopes at the side of the road, although the larger trees, the towering ancient giants, were always at least fifty paces distant. Ten Roman miles outside Emona we came upon a large party of travellers. There were at least ten men and twice as many women and children, five wagons and half a dozen horses. A group of slaves and servants led the pack mules, stacked high with baggage. It was clear that the people had fled Noricum with all their possessions. The prince held up his open palm, indicating for the travellers to halt. “Where do you come from”, he asked the man closest to him, “and why have you left Noricum?” “We used to stay in a small town up north called Joviaco, lord”, he said. Then he pointed straight at me and spat in the road. “That man’s kin, the Heruli, are ravaging the lands to the north. The holy man, the Apostle of Noricum, Severinus, prophesied that the pagans would overrun the town. Many laughed when they heard his words, but we listened to the man of God.” “What happened at Joviaco?” Odovaker asked. “The Herulian savages sacked the town after we left”, he said. “Took all the people as slaves and crucified the old priest.” His gaze settled on me. “Bloody Godless savages”, he said, and spat again. I noticed that his words angered Odovaker. “The Heruli prey on you because you are weak, Roman”, he said. The man took a step backwards in response. “When Rome conquered the world, all the tribes feared the warriors of the Empire. But look at you now. You are warriors no longer – you are weaklings. Italia has no need of men like you.” Odovaker’s hand found the hilt of his sword and for a moment I thought that there would be violence, but he took a deep breath. “Leave now, Roman”, he said. “Before I lose my patience.” The man and his kin passed us by, occasionally glancing at us with stares of hatred and contempt. “We should have slit their throats and taken their gold”, Beremud said. “They are just a burden to the land of Italia. Rome needs warriors, not grovelling peasants.” Kursik growled in agreement. Later the same day we arrived at Emona, or rather what remained of the city. Attila and his horde had come this way nearly twenty years before on their way to Italia. There was a reason why the people feared him so - he had destroyed everything in his path. Less than a mile north of Emona we crossed the formidable Sava, at a place where submerged sandbanks made the river fordable during high summer. Three miles to the north the road turned east. Dusk was nearly upon us, so we made camp on a pasture which some or other peasant farmer had abandoned years before. We watered the horses and washed the dirt from our bodies in an unnamed river. While Beremud and I bathed, Kursik, who could not find a goat to sacrifice, made a fire. When we arrived at our tent, we found the Hun sitting cross-legged, downwind of the flames, with his eyes closed, smoke washing over him. Beremud nudged me with his elbow and pointed to a small pile of pine resin close to the Hun. “He is taking a smoke bath. The smoke from the resin of pine trees is said to cleanse the soul.” We joined Kursik around the fire. Not long after, cuts of fatty pork were roasting over the flames, filling the air with a mouth-watering aroma. “The farther north we go, the more dangerous it will become”, Kursik said. “In these lands we are despised by the Romans who believe that we are barbarians. If we were to cross paths with the men of the tribes, they will most likely believe that we are Romans.” The Hun raised a valid point and we decided that, although we would not don our full armour the following day, it would be prudent to wear chain mail underneath our long-sleeved tunics. We would make sure our weapons are at hand. On the morrow we continued our journey on the Amber Road, heading for Poetovium, crossing the border of Italia into Noricum. Although Rome still officially ruled the province, its military presence was reduced to weak garrisons guarding larger, walled towns. I rode abreast of the Scirii prince through a countryside littered with hills and valleys. “In the old days, the growth was cleared for fifty paces on either side”, he explained, pointing to the thick vegetation bordering the cobbled Roman road. “Nowadays it is easy for thieves to ambush travellers.” He gestured with his chin to a series of potholes where cobbles were missing. “The brigands do that to damage the wagons of the merchants, to make them easy prey. Rome has abandoned these lands in all but name.” His eyes scanned the treeline. “But have no fear, the thieves are cowards – they will never dare to attack even ten of us, let alone a hundred.” We travelled along the cobbled road, surrounded by endless forests of beech, oak and silver fir. As we made our way north, two things were noticeable. The hilly country became increasingly flat, and the trees fewer, making it more attractive to farmers as it was easier to work the soil. But as we moved north, we noticed that more and more fields lay abandoned. The peasants had either never returned after the predations of Attila, or they had fled south to Italia as the edges of the Western Empire crumbled. True to the words of Odovaker, none dared to attack us as we made our way north along the Amber Road. More than once did we pass merchant caravans bringing their wares to the lucrative markets of Italia. We never ventured close to the fortified towns of Noricum where nervous guards, whose only loyalty lay with the towns, vigilantly watched from the dilapidated walls. “We are not welcome here”, Odovaker said. “In Italia, the people know that the foederati are there to protect them. In this part of the world we are just another band of barbarians who cannot be trusted.” “If we follow the main Amber Road, we will enter Pannonia tomorrow”, Prince Odovaker announced one evening. “We will have to take a detour through Noricum. We cannot enter Pannonia.” “Detour, lord?” I asked. “The Eastern emperor gave Pannonia to the Ostrogoths after the Khan died”, he said. “Theodemir’s Goths will kill us if they were to capture us in their lands. I sent scouts ahead and they reported to me – they spied many Gothic patrols. Our presence will be discovered.” Kursik and I stiffened when we heard the name of the ruler of Pannonia. It did not go unnoticed. “Do you know of the Goth King Theodemir?” he asked. I nodded. “He wishes to have my head”, I said. “Were it not for Kursik, he would have succeeded years ago.” “Why does Theodemir wish you dead?” Odovaker asked, a frown creasing his brow. “I do not know, lord”, I said. “When last he spoke to me, I believe that he had too much to drink. What he said did not make sense.” Odovaker said naught, but kept his gaze on me, no doubt wishing to hear the words of the Goth king. “He said that his son, Theoderic, will rule a great nation, lord. But he cannot allow his sons to tear the kingdom apart after his death.” I shrugged. “His words are a riddle.” “Did he mention your mother?” “He did lord. He told me that many years ago, he wished to wed her.” Odovaker sighed. “You must speak about this with your grandsire. Theodemir has always looked up to Abdarakos.” His words surprised me, but I inclined my head. “I will do so, lord.” He turned to leave, but I said, “Lord, why is it that Theodemir wishes to kill you?” “He swore an oath to do so”, Odovaker said. “Because I made him king.” I stared back at him in confusion. He issued a humourless grin. “I killed the previous Goth king”, Odovaker said. “His name was Valamir and he was Theodemir’s brother.”

* * *

“Julius told me that tomorrow we will be heading west, to Virinum”, Beremud said. “From there we will go north to Lauriacum on the Danube. Apparently there is still a strong Roman garrison in the city.” Kursik lowered his voice. “I heard whispers that the prince will be visiting with a shaman.” “Odovaker is an Arian Christian”, I said. “Are you sure?” Kursik nodded. “A Christian shaman, a man called Severinus”, he said. “He is a priest”, I said, “not a shaman.” “Same thing”, Kursik said. Beremud shrugged, showing his support for the Hun. I realised I was outnumbered and dropped the subject. The following morning I rode abreast of Odovaker and asked him about his planned visit to the priest. “I go to speak with the holy man, Severinus of Noricum”, Odovaker said. “It is true.” “Many years ago, I had a chance meeting with Severinus”, he explained. “He spoke prophetic words then. I will visit him to seek his counsel.”

* * *

We soon realised why the amber traders used the Roman road through Pannonia, rather than the one through Noricum. The latter was treacherous to say the least. The route took us through the eastern part of the mountains, weaving its way through a myriad of valleys and low passes. We rode across breathtakingly beautiful green mountain meadows, but on other days, we were forced to struggle through mud within dark, wet, forests where the cobbles had long since been scavenged by peasants. More than a few horses had to be abandoned in the passes due to bruised hooves, injured while traversing the slippery rocky slopes. Ten long days passed before we descended along the last valley and emerged on the flat, fertile lands surrounding the Danube. Another day saw us arriving on the southern bank of the Traun River. Odovaker pointed to the far bank where the remains of a massive stone wall were still visible. “It is the city of Ovilava”, he said. “It used to be the capital of Noricum”, he added and shook his head. “This is what the whole of Italia will look like if the tribes are not contained.” We did not bother to cross the river, but made camp on the southern bank. There we rested for a day to allow the horses to recover. On the morrow we followed the Roman road east, towards Lauriacum. We rode past the small fields of many peasant farmers who worked the fertile soil. “You will see none of the great villas that are so common in Italia”, Odovaker said. “All the men of means have fled years ago. The ones who remained cannot afford to flee, or they are of barbarian stock, in which case they are accustomed to poverty.” We had no business in Lauriacum and bypassed the city. Our food rations that we had brought from Venezia were long gone, consequently we sustained ourselves by hunting game and fowl. This meant that our small group ate well because Kursik’s skill with the bow was extraordinary. The same could not be said of the men of the Scirii prince, until the first evening east of Lauriacum. Just after we had made camp and lit a fire to cook the three pheasants Kursik had taken in mid-air, Julius arrived driving a two-horse cart loaded with baskets and amphorae. “The boys came across some Rugian traders earlier”, he said, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder while issuing a grin. “Seems the traders had no need for their merchandise any longer.” “Help yourselves”, he said. “One amphora of wine, one of olive oil, and a basket of flour.” It was not difficult to work out why the traders would have no further need of their merchandise. While I bit my tongue in order not to offer a retort, Beremud and Kursik unloaded our share of the spoils. When Julius had gone, I voiced my concerns. “Is it wise to kill Rugian traders?” I said. “Are they not the Christian brothers of the Romans? Are they not the ones who protect the people of Noricum?” “Don’t know how much you’ve been listening to the talk around the fires”, Beremud said. “I have. The Rugii do protect the borders, that’s true, but they are hard masters nonetheless. They take tribute from the towns in exchange for their protection. And the garrisons of the towns round up Roman peasant farmers and send them to labour across the Danube in Rugian lands.” “So the Romans are sold as slaves?” I asked. Beremud nodded. “They call it tribute – it sounds better.” “The wagons were filled with tribute destined for the Rugii”, Kursik said. “Julius and the boys liberated the Romans who were tied to the wagons and relieved the corpses of their tribute. What’s so wrong with that?” The big Goth had a point. I shrugged and bit into the fresh flatbread made from the liberated flour. Chapter 26 – The Apostle of Noricum

The Roman centurion manning the gates stared down at us from atop the wall walk. “You are not allowed to enter Favianis, by order of the Apostle of Noricum”, he said. “I will not open the gates, even if the emperor himself ordered it.” “I wish to speak to the holy man”, Odovaker replied. “He is not in the town”, the centurion said. “Where is he?” Odovaker said. “Who wants to know?” “Tribune Flavius Odovaker.” The centurion eyed us for long, no doubt trying to ascertain whether we posed a threat or not. Eventually he came to a decision and pointed to the east. “Follow what remains of the fortifications along the banks of the Danube. A mile to the east, you will see the ruins of a single stone watchtower. There you will find the holy man – there in the stillness he fasts and prays and the Lord comes to speak with him.” “It seems to me that Severinus wields much power for a priest”, I said, riding alongside the prince. “He is no ordinary peasant priest”, Odovaker said. “He is a Roman noble who denounced his status and wealth. He went on a pilgrimage to the East, where he lived as a hermit in the desert for many years, until God appeared to him in a vision, calling him to Noricum.” It made sense to me. Why would the Christian God not wield the same power as the Germani gods and the Hun gods? I nodded. “Atakam, my mentor, was the shaman to the Khan”, I said. “He wielded great power. Even now my grandsire, Abdarakos, looks to him for advice.” “Is this Atakam a man who communes with the old gods?” Odovaker asked. “He travels to the realm of the gods”, I said. “He is no charlatan. He is a good man, honest and true.” Odovaker nodded his approval. “This holy man, Severinus, is the same. He communes with God to assist the people of Noricum. He desires no earthly riches. Even the old Rugii king, Flaccitheus, visits him to seek advice.” When we arrived at the dilapidated tower a Roman mile from the city, Odovaker reined in fifty paces from the structure. He turned his horse around to face his men. “Wait here”, he said. “I go to speak with the holy man on my own. Do not fear for my safety - Severinus is a man of peace.” The prince had just dismounted when a frail voice emanated from the room atop the tower. “Bring the Herulian. I have words for him.” Odovaker grinned at me. “Come, young Ragnar, it seems that your day is about to become interesting.” My stomach churned at his words. I had witnessed the power of the gods with my own eyes. I have seen how the blood runes could influence fate. I knew not the God of the Christians and for that reason I feared his priest. For obvious reasons there were no steps giving access to the top of the watchtower. In days gone by, when the river fortifications were still garrisoned, the ladder would have been drawn up after the sentries ascended, but I noticed that it was now firmly nailed in place. We climbed up the ladder through the recessed opening in the wooden floor of the small room. The rusted iron hinges on one side hinted to a long-gone trapdoor. I followed the prince, who extended his hand to help me into the small chamber. When my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, I noticed an emaciated man sitting cross-legged in the far corner. His face and head were clean-shaven and he wore an expression of peace. His robe was made of undyed wool and his feet were bare, his soles calloused. He wore no rings or trinkets. He motioned for us to join him. “We greet you, father”, Odovaker said, and sat down beside the old man. “Ah, the young barbarian has returned”, Severinus said in a Latin so perfect, it was clear that he was of noble stock. “Do you cling to the Arian heresy still? Are you a ring-giver yet?” he said, and I thought I noticed a hint of a smile play around the corners of his mouth. “I fear that I have remained an Arian”, Odovaker replied. “I have risen in the ranks of the foederati, but I am far from a gift-giver, a king.” “Father”, Odovaker continued, “I have come…” Severinus raised his open palm. “I know, my son. I know”, he said, and I could hear that he truly cared. “Emperor Anthemius is consumed by greed and the lust for power. You need not fear, prince, the Lord approves of your actions. God will remove the obstacles from your path – it is what a father does for his children. Even if they stray.” Odovaker nodded and I thought that I noticed his eyes glaze over, but it was dark inside the room and I could have been mistaken. The holy man turned his gaze to me, which raised the hairs on the back of my neck. His eyes bored into me and I was sure that his God had granted him the power to peer into the souls of men. “They called him the Scourge of God, you know”, he said in perfect Greek. “Yes, lord”, I replied. “Do you know what a scourge looks like?” he asked. “I do, lord.” “It is not the scourge that inflicts the pain”, he said. “It is the hand that wields it.” “Who directed Attila?” he asked, and again he looked at me with his piercing blue eyes. “The hands of the gods, lord”, I replied without hesitation. Severinus nodded. “He was but an instrument of God”, he said and issued a wan smile, his eyes filled with sadness. He reached out and placed his calloused hand on top of mine. I could sense no hostility, and I found myself liking this strange man who seemed to care for all. “Follow your path then, Herulian”, he said softly. “God needs his whips as well.” Before either of us could respond he waved his hand in dismissal. “Leave me now, I am weary from fasting, and there is much I still need to ask of the Lord.”

* * *

Odovaker led us back in the direction of Favianis. “So what did he say to you?” Asbadus asked. Kursik, who rode next to the burly Isaurian, could hardly contain his curiosity. “He told me that their God needs a whip”, I said, “and that I should follow my path.” Beremud and Kursik stared back at me with perplexed expressions. Asbadus frowned. For long, nobody spoke as they digested the meaning of the holy man’s words. After what seemed like three hundred heartbeats, Asbadus broke the silence. “The god-message that the priest passed on to you is good, Ragnar”, he said. “You have received confirmation that you are on the right path, and”, he added, “their God wishes to use you as a weapon.” “I agree with Asbadus”, Beremud said. “In this world one needs all the help one can get. It seems that the God of the Christians favour you, Ragnar.” I was not sure whether the Christian God favoured me, but I was nonetheless relieved at the outcome. Not long after, with the walls of Favianis in sight, Odovaker reined in. “We will cross the Danube near the town”, he said, and turned his horse towards the river. I expected to see the telltale signs of a ford, but there were none. Odovaker told us to wait at the side of the road and made his way towards the water. He carefully nudged his horse into the shallows until he was two paces from dry ground. He waved, and shouted in the tongue of the Germani. I heard a muted shout in reply. The Scirii prince edged his horse back onto the bank. “Rest for a while”, he said. “They will be here soon.” We took turns to water the horses where the bank of the river was level with the waterline. Within an hour the first of the boats arrived. Before the sun had reached its zenith, twenty barbarian boats were anchored just off the bank, close to the clearing. With surprising skill, the Rugii boatmen loaded the men and horses onto the variety of boats which ranged from large, wide boats resembling barges, to smaller versions of the Heruli longboats. Among them was a large flat- bottomed craft which had a distinctive Roman appearance. Odovaker noticed my enquiring stare. “She’s from the Roman fleet”, he said. “Stolen or plundered long ago – who knows and who cares? At least she will take many of us across today. The Western Empire has long abandoned its river fleet.” We were rowed across the wide expanse of water, and soon found ourselves on the northern bank of the river without getting our proverbial feet wet. Odovaker paid them their promised coin and before long the boats melted away to wherever they had come from. My horse whinnied softly in a greeting to his own kind. From the treeline, many riders appeared who wore the mismatched clothes and armour of the tribes. They dressed their line effortlessly, lowered their spears and walked their horses towards us. I smiled and Beremud and Kursik grinned back at me. Asbadus eyed the barbarian warriors warily. Finally we had left the Roman world behind us. Finally we had come home. Chapter 27 – Amal

King Flaccitheus clasped arms with Odovaker in the way of the warrior. “Your father and I won a great victory, fighting side by side at Nedao. Two years ago, at Bolia, he was again at my side when Hunimund led us to defeat. The Rugii and the Scirii have spilled their blood as brothers.” For a handspan of heartbeats the Rugii king breathed deeply to calm himself, then he turned to face me. He took a step forward and embraced me in a bear hug, then stepped back. “Young Ragnar, I remember you well from Bolia. You were in the thick of things that day, yet here you are – alive and well. Surely the Lord favours you.” Apart from two guards, the Scirii prince and I were alone with the king in the great hall. Flaccitheus turned to face his guards. “Go”, he said. “Summon my sons. Tonight we will feast the young wolves of the Scirii and the Heruli.” The guards hesitated, as they did not wish to leave their king unprotected. “These men are my allies”, he said. “They are great warriors. Surely they can look after an old man.” The hulking Rugian warriors exchanged a quick glance, nodded, and left the hall. “You are far from old, lord”, Odovaker said. “You are of an age with my father, and he, like you, is still a formidable warrior.” The king waved away Odovaker’s words and took a step closer. He leaned in conspiratorially. “I have two sons”, he said. “The eldest, Feva, will be king - that is the way of the Rugii. After our defeat at Bolia, I negotiated an uneasy peace with Theodemir of the Ostrogoths. It was necessary as our lands border on theirs. As part of the arrangement, Theodemir insisted that Feva marry Giso, an Amal princess.” Again he looked over his shoulder. “She is the devil”, he said. “The bitch is poisoning the mind of my son against me and his brother.” The king placed his hand on Odovaker’s shoulder. “Take my second son, Ferderuchus, with you when you go north. He is a true warrior, a man of honour.” I learned much from Odovaker’s response. “I will take him with me, lord”, he said without any hesitation. Flaccitheus exhaled with relief when he heard the words of Odovaker. “Since you have peace on your borders, lord”, the Scirii prince added, “I beg you to consider a humble request.” The king nodded. “Rome is willing to pay a thousand Rugii warriors as foederati. They will receive armour and weapons and I will lead them. When I return this way, lord, they may travel with me to the lands of Rome. This I ask only as a boon, lord. Even if you decide to allow none to accompany me, I will still protect your son with my life.” “Will you ask the same of your father?” he asked. Odovaker nodded. “I will ask my father, lord. I will also speak with Lord Abdarakos and put the same request to him.” The king nodded his approval. “I grant you permission to traverse my land with the army you gather. Send a messenger to forewarn me when you return. In the meantime, I will consider your request.” We heard a commotion outside. A young man, of an age with me, entered the hall. He was tall, muscular and comely. He carried a plumed helmet under his arm and wore the scale armour favoured by the Rugii. I noticed the pride in the eyes of the king as he watched the young man approach. The young warrior inclined his head to the king. “Father”, he said, “you have summoned me.” Flaccitheus introduced us to his son Ferderuchus who inclined his head to us in turn. “Lord Odovaker”, he said. “It is a great honour to meet you. My father speaks of the Scirii often. Your reputation precedes you, lord.” Then he clasped my arm. “Lord Ragnar”, he said. “I am told that you are of the blood of the Great Khan”, he said. “You are but my age, yet you have travelled to the farthest shores of Scandza.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I envy you, Ragnar of the Heruli. The Lord must favour you.” His words did not impress me, but what did, was the honesty with which he spoke them. I realised why his father doted on him. Just then a man entered with a woman on his arm. He was dressed like a king - gilded scale armour, embroidered green wool braccae and red leather boots. An ivory-hilted longsword in a jewelled scabbard hung from his broad leather belt which was finished in gold leaf. A wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, kept in place by a large, finely crafted, gold brooch. The woman at his side was a rare beauty. She was nearly as tall as he, with golden blonde hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. She wore an embroidered green dress which matched the colour of Feva’s braccae. Around her slender neck she wore a golden cross inlaid with amber. Her shoulders were covered with a long cloak made from the luxurious fur of the black fox. All were kept in place by a large brooch studded with jewels. Feva inclined his head to Flaccitheus and the woman curtsied. The king introduced us. The Rugii prince clasped arms with Odovaker. “Lord Odovaker”, the woman, called Gisa, said. “It is good to welcome a fellow Christian in the halls of the Rugii.” She turned her gaze to me but said naught, her eyes devoid of emotion, like a viper. I was accustomed to it, though, as I had seen it before many a time in the halls of the palace in the City of Constantine. Firmly under the spell of his wife, Feva chose to ignore me. I noticed that Flaccitheus’s complexion turned red. For a moment he fought to control his anger. Then he smiled and said, “Let us feast to celebrate the arrival of my allies, the Heruli and the Scirii.” Odovaker was no fool and he gave me a sideways glance. “Not much different from the halls of Constantinople”, he whispered as we took a seat around the large oak table. Slaves and servants, who looked suspiciously Roman to me, carried great platters of grilled meat, chicken and fish. Pouring slaves filled our cups with wine. Although the king’s hospitality could not be faulted, the food tasted bitter. I longed to be away from the machinations of schemers and backstabbers. I longed to be seated around the hearths of the Heruli.

* * *

“You are welcome to stay longer”, the king said. “Your hospitality is unmatched, lord”, Odovaker said, but we have far to travel. The king nodded. “I understand”, he said. “The bitch makes the sweetest mead taste bitter.” Odovaker and I grinned like fools. The words of the king were true. “You are doing me a great service”, Flaccitheus said. “Ferderuchus is young and full of fire. He will not endure Gisa for long. If some evil befalls her, there will be war between the Rugii and the Goths of Theodemir – a war that I cannot win.” He shook his head and I saw the sadness in his eyes. “Look after my son”, he said, and walked back to his hall – back to what had become a nest of vipers.

* * *

Kursik shook his elongated head. “It would have been better to have died with honour”, he said. “The Rugii king has made a mistake by making peace with the Goths. They cannot be trusted. That woman will be the undoing of the Rugii.” Beremud nodded his agreement. “That is why the old way of the Heruli is best”, he said. “A woman looks after her man as if her life depends on it.” He was referring to the age-old Heruli practice where a woman is buried with her husband. My mother, Ildiko, took her own life after her husband, Ellac, was killed in battle. “It is not the way of the Hun”, Kursik said. “But I will not argue the benefits.” Ferderuchus rolled his eyes. “You non-believers, you are all the same”, he said. The young Rugii prince, who had joined us on our journey, had soon gained our favour with his jovial, straightforward way. Kursik dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “Why do you call us non-believers, Ferderuchus?” he asked. “We believe in your God. But we also believe in all the other gods. So we believe more than you do.” The Rugii prince seemed to mull over the Hun’s words. “You may have a point, Hun”, he admitted, then wisely changed the subject. “Show me the bow of the Khan again, Ragnar”, he said, “before the Hun talks me to death.” Kursik grinned, as Ferderuchus was hard to dislike. I handed the horn bow of the Khan to the Rugii who studied it reverently. “It is magnificent”, he said and traced the silver inlays with his fingers. “Be careful with it”, Asbadus jested. “It belonged to a non-believer.” “Yet he was a warrior of renown”, Ferderuchus said. “And that is good enough for me.” That evening we camped on the southern bank of a river the locals called the Weak River, the Thaya. I could hardly contain my excitement as the Thaya was the southern boundary of the lands of the Heruli. My companions and I sat around the cooking fire with Ferderuchus where Odovaker joined us. “You surely know that we will cross into the lands of your kin on the morrow”, he said. I nodded, as I could barely contain my excitement. “Only a fool enters the territory of the Heruli without permission”, he said. “A bigger fool enters it with a hundred men who wear the garb of the Romans.” “And you are no fool, lord”, I confirmed. “I will stay in the territory of the Rugii with Ferderuchus”, he said. “You and your companions will go north and seek permission from Abdarakos.” Chapter 28 – Cleansing (August 471 AD)

I sat on my all too Roman horse, my arms at my side, open palms facing forward. “I am Ragnar”, I said. “I ride north to speak with my grandsire, Abdarakos.” The Herulian commander pointed his spear at my companions, who had wisely adopted the same position to display peaceful intent. “They don’t look like Heruli”, he said. “The fat one with the markings on his cheeks looks like a Goth.” “Count your words, Herulian”, Beremud growled from behind me. “Abdarakos might forgive you if you hold us up”, I said. “But Atakam has cursed men for smaller infringements.” The leader scowled, but I saw the fear in his eyes when I mentioned the shaman. “Come then, Ragnar, let us not keep the erilar waiting.” It took the remainder of the day and most of the following to reach the camp of Abdarakos, near the Gates of Moravia. On our way we passed many small farms, where the peasants busied themselves with harvesting winter barley and wheat. “They are prosperous”, Asbadus commented along the way as we passed another large field with golden barley. “There are few, if any, who are foolish enough to venture into the heartland of the Heruli to raid the peasant farms under the tribe’s protection”, I said. “The Heruli are hard masters, but at least the peasants are safe as long as they behave.” On the afternoon of the second day I began to recognize landmarks I had not seen for a double handful of years. It stirred up a strange mix of emotions and, at first, a great sadness overwhelmed me. I thought of Leodis, Sigizan and Atakam and their struggle to raise a cripple boy. I touched my right ankle and I thought of the hundreds of hours that Leodis had spent massaging my cripple foot. I thought about how he never gave up hope, even when all, including himself, knew it was hopeless. I thought of the stories that Atakam had told me every night. Tales of the old gods and their power – tales that gave me hope. In my mind’s eye I saw Sigizan riding beside me, teaching me the way of the horse. Teaching a cripple boy the skills of a warrior – skills he knew I would never use. I made a silent oath then, a private one which I never shared with anyone. I made a promise to the shade of Leodis, to Atakam and to Sigizan. I made an oath before Ulgin that I would never give up hope, no matter what. It was the least I could do in return. The sadness left me when we crested the last hill and the sprawling camp on the northern slope of the valley came into view. I had always felt like an orphan because I had no father and no mother, but in that moment I realised that I was luckier than most. I had three fathers – Leodis, Atakam and Sigizan. More fool me that one had to die before I realised it.

* * *

Kursik, Beremud, Asbadus, Sigizan, Boarex and I sat cross-legged around the central stone hearth in the tent of the shaman. Atakam pushed the thick felt flap aside and entered the smoke-filled gloom. His feet were bare, his simple leather braccae stitched with small bells and bones. The swirling tattoos on his naked torso were exposed, to assist him on his journey. Tail feathers of eagles and ravens were braided into his long hair. Atakam said words in the tongue of the ancients and cast leaves and twigs upon the coals. A thick column of smoke erupted through the hole in the roof, spiralled to the heavens, and filled the tent with a sweet aroma. “The smoke is the World Tree”, I whispered to Asbadus, who sat next to me. “Atakam is linking the worlds. The underworld, where the spirits of the dead dwell, middle-earth, the realm of men, and the sky-world, the realm of the gods. The smoke of the herbs will cleanse our shades.” The shaman bent low and picked up a heavy leather pouch from beside the fire. His hand probed inside the sack and he extracted a round stone typical to riverbeds. He held the stone aloft for all to see. “The Mother River, the mighty Danube”, he proclaimed, and placed the stone onto the coals within the large hearth. Again his hand searched the pouch and he withdrew another. “The white stone from the Mythical River, the Volga.” Soon eight stones were lying on the embers. “I will ask the spirits of the rivers to assist me in my journey. I will ask them to give me wisdom before the door is opened”, he said. Atakam chanted words in a strange tongue as he carefully sprinkled a fine powder onto the stones. He drew a deep breath, his head waving from side to side. Finally he nodded to us, content that all had been done in preparation. The shaman took a small clay cup and poured wine from a silver vessel. He dipped his fingers into the wine and sprinkled an offering towards the heavens, then onto the earth and finally he pressed his fingers onto his forehead. From a pouch tied to his belt he took two pinches of powder and stirred it into the wine with his finger. He said the required words and swallowed the contents in one gulp. “It is powder from the sacred mushroom”, I whispered to Asbadus. “It opens the crack between the worlds.” Atakam took his trance drum from where it had been drying beside the fire. He started beating it rhythmically while chanting an age-old mantra. He rocked back and forth, until suddenly he dropped the drum onto the furs and stood swaying from side to side. We all stared at the fire, except Asbadus, whose eyes were fixed on the shaman. I nudged him with my elbow. “Bad things will happen if you look him in the eye while he is the sky-world”, I said, which made Asbadus jerk his head away. For long, Atakam spoke words none could understand. Then his strength suddenly faded and he dropped onto the furs, drenched in sweat. Sigizan was the first to stand. “Come, we will leave him to recover on his own. Communion with the gods is dangerous at best”, he said. “Many who pass through the door unprepared return scarred, with minds bent by madness – others don’t come back at all. But this old man is a tough one, a spirit- warrior. He will be fine.” The shaman rested for the remainder of the day. After the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, Atakam called me to his tent. “You are favoured by the gods, Ragnar”, he said. I wished to answer, but he stopped me by raising an open palm. “They favour you because you have listened, you have followed your ordained path. It is good that you travel north”, he said. “I will travel with you.” “But Atakam”, I said. “You are not young anymore, it will be dangerous.” “Should I ignore the instructions of the gods?” he hissed. “Do you believe that doing so will serve me better?” I shook my head. “Forgive me Atakam”, I said. My spiritual father placed a gnarled hand against my cheek. “Leodis is content”, he said, but then his eyes clouded over and I noticed a tear roll down his weathered cheek. “Although he would have liked a chance to say goodbye.” Atakam drew a deep breath and continued. “Abdarakos will be back early tomorrow”, he said. “He will not refuse the request of the Scirii prince – I will speak with the erilar.” “There is no need”, I said. “I will ask Abdarakos myself when he returns.” “You will not be here”, he said. “You ride south within the hour - Odovaker is in grave danger. Mani will show you the way.” Chapter 29 – Vision

Atakam had forewarned Sigizan. I found the Hun waiting outside the tent of the shaman with fifty seasoned warriors. All were of Hunnic blood, but they proudly carried the marks of the Heruli on their scarred cheeks. Moments later Kursik, Asbadus and Beremud arrived, followed by Boarex who led three Hun horses. “Two for riding and one to carry your weapons, armour and provisions”, he said, and flicked me the reins. I vaulted onto the back of the chestnut gelding and clicked my tongue to bring him to a trot. As the last of the daylight faded, a bright yellow moon appeared above the faraway hills on the horizon. I dug my heels into the sides of my horse and turned its head towards the distant orb of light. We rode through the night, changing horses often and stopping to water them whenever a stream could be found. When the moon had set and the grey pre-dawn light illuminated the landscape, Sigizan reined in. “Arm yourselves”, he said, and all dismounted to don their armour. All of us, except Asbadus, had ridden with Huns before. But the burly Isaurian did not fall behind, as his will was forged from iron. He dismounted stiffly, like I had seen old men do, and stretched his weary limbs. Sigizan nodded his agreement when he noticed that I was inspecting my weapons and stringing my bow. “We are less than five miles from the Thaya River”, he announced to all. “Keep you strings dry and your hands on your swords.” I rode while gnawing on hard cheese and dried meat, and swallowed it down with sour milk from a skin. The Thaya presented no significant obstacle, as the current was weak during late summer. We swam the horses across the narrow channel while holding our weapons above our heads – water weakens bowstrings and warps scabbards. The first sounds of battle reached our ears when we emerged from the treeline on the southern bank, just as the sun breached the eastern horizon. I pointed to the west. “Odovaker is encamped half a mile from here”, I said, and kicked my horse to a canter. Peasants had cleared the land generations before and we galloped across the flat ground unhindered. Soon we noticed that a band of horsemen, which I estimated to number a hundred and fifty warriors, had surrounded the foederati of the Scirii prince, trapping them against the bank of the river. I was there when Odovaker chose the campsite – there was no escape towards the river as the slippery bank sloped steeply towards the water. I took four arrows in my draw hand and relinquished the reins, guiding the horse with my thighs. Sigizan’s men straightened the line at his signal. Eighty paces from the enemy, Sigizan released his first shaft. Before the attackers could come to grips with the threat from the rear, two hundred armour-piercing arrows slammed into their backs. We did not slow down, but thrust our bows into their cases and hit the confused line of warriors at speed, bowling over more than a few riders who were too slow to turn. I knew it would be close-quarter work - my axe was already in my hand. Ten paces in front of me a mailed warrior turned his horse to face the new threat. He was no fool and jerked his reins to his right when he noticed the bearded axe in my right hand. But unlike most masters of the axe, Trokondas had taught me to wield the blade with either hand. The man smirked as I drew near, knowing that I could not reach him. But I shifted the weapon to my left hand, leaned from the saddle like only a Hun can, and struck out at my adversary with a backhanded sweep as I passed him. The blunt end of the blade struck him on the back of his helmet and he toppled from his horse and disappeared under the hooves. To my right, a warrior drew back a short-hafted stabbing spear with a broad, leaf-shaped iron head. He pitched from the saddle, a Hun arrow skewering his neck. A big man on an enormous black stallion rammed into me from the right. My horse stumbled and fell, but I rolled clear and jumped to my feet. Beremud, on my left, struck out at the warrior, but only scored a glancing blow, the blade of his axe cutting into the rump of the stallion. The animal reared and threw the rider as Beremud became engaged with another. The big man stepped from behind his horse which reared again and galloped away in fright. He carried an axe similar to mine. “Bloody heathen pup”, he growled, and spat in the dirt. “Where did you steal the armour from?” He hefted the weapon above his head in a two-handed grip, took a step closer and swung the blade at me in powerful downward arc, as if splitting a log. I had practised the move a thousand times. I stepped back and to the side with my right foot, changing the angle of my body so that my left side faced the attack. I raised the axe into a high guard and my right hand slid down the haft in an underhand grip, until both hands were near the butt, the haft nearly parallel to the ground. In that instant his haft connected with the iron reinforced haft of my axe. I raised my left shoulder, pivoted my hips and relaxed my wrists. The power of his blow was angled away from my body but the block allowed his weapon to continue its arc towards the ground. He overbalanced and the power of the blow moved his body past mine. The block was designed as a counterstrike. My axe was already drawn back. Before the warrior could right himself, I flexed my wrists, lowered my left shoulder and leaned back to counter the weight of my accelerating blade. The blunt end of the head struck the back of the warrior’s leg below the knee and I heard an audible crack as the bone shattered. He slumped onto his knees, but before I could finish him off, a rider slammed into him from the side. I raised my axe in greeting to Asbadus who swung his axe in a lazy arc and silenced the man forever. All around the sounds of battle faded away as the last of the enemy warriors, now greatly outnumbered, were dispatched. “Your shaman is no charlatan”, Asbadus said, and handed me the reins of my horse.

* * *

We found Odovaker propped up against a tree. He was bleeding from a leg wound, and to a lesser degree from where a blade had scored his forearm. Julius was busy binding up his injuries. Beside the Scirii prince stood Ferderuchus, who was nursing a wound to his side. Odovaker’s eyes were closed, but he must have heard my voice. “It seems I am getting deeper into your debt, Ragnar the Herulian”, he said, his voice weak from the loss of blood. “You will have to thank Atakam, our holy man”, I said. “It is he who foresaw this.” “Atakam is not the only one to whom I owe gratitude”, he replied, and waved a hand in the direction of Ferderuchus. He motioned with his chin towards enemy corpses lying close by. “I was already wounded and weak when all three attacked”, he said, “but Ferderuchus stood at my side.” He turned his gaze to the Rugii prince. “I will not forget what you have done”, he said. “I owe you a blood debt.” I noticed Odovaker’s hand was still wrapped around the hilt of his sword, which he had stuck into the earth. Drops of blood were flowing down the blade, into the soil. A shiver went up my spine, as I had learned the power of such signs on the lap of Atakam. The old shaman had taught me that in times of old the attention of the god of war was drawn to a blade embedded in the ground. But I dismissed the thought as quickly as it appeared. Surely none other had noticed. But I was wrong. In the realm of the gods, Teiwaz, who had no doubt been watching the battle, was still listening intently. And the god would not forget the blood oath made on the sword in the earth. Chapter 30 – Ostrogoths

Ten paces to our left Ferderuchus turned over a body with his boot. “I have seen this man before”, he said. “He was in Gisa’s retinue many moons ago when she arrived from Pannonia.” He pointed at a blood-red welt on the warrior’s forehead. “One does not forget a scar like this.” “Bloody Goths”, Beremud growled, and kicked the closest corpse. “So, it is Theodemir and the Pannonian Ostrogoths”, Odovaker said. “Yes”, Ferderuchus said. “Gisa, my brother’s wife, is an evil Goth bitch. I would wager that she informed her kinsman, Theodemir, and he sent them to kill me.” I pointed to the men who had attacked Odovaker, the ones Ferderuchus had slain. “Then why did they attack you, lord”, I said to Odovaker, “rather than the Rugii prince? Is there a reason why they wish to rid the world of you, lord?” The Scirii prince stared into the distance. “Pannonia, where the Ostrogoths have been allowed to settle, is part of the Eastern Empire”, he said. “Emperor Leo of the East is on good terms with Anthemius, the Western emperor. It could be that Anthemius had asked Leo for assistance against Ricimer. Killing me will be a good way to assist Anthemius. If I am unable to bring the Heruli, the Scirii and the Rugii warriors to bear against Anthemius, he might very well be able to defeat Ricimer.” “That”, he added, “is certainly what could have happened.” Odovaker reflected on the possibilities for a handspan of heartbeats, then dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. “It matters not”, he said. “Ferderuchus and I will be out of their grasp once we cross the Thaya River into the lands of the Heruli. Not even one as stupid as a Goth will follow us there.” We were all keen to enter the sanctuary of the lands of the Heruli, and as a result we readied to leave immediately after the corpses of the Goths were stripped of anything of value. Odovaker’s company had suffered badly. Twenty bodies were taken north across the river. In addition to the casualties, most of his foederati warriors had sustained wounds of varying degrees of seriousness - eighteen of those would not be fit to fight again soon. We did not travel far after crossing the river. The Heruli warriors commanded by Sigizan had suffered no casualties, but the foederati warriors were keen to honour their dead. Once we had set up camp, I joined Asbadus, and we walked over to the area where Odovaker and his foederati had set up their tents. Close by, warriors were preparing to inter their fallen comrades. I immediately noticed that about half of the graves pointed east-west while the others had a north-east orientation. “Why do all the graves not face south?” I asked Odovaker, who had noticed my interest. “The Christians bury their dead with their feet towards the east”, he said. “We believe that God will one day come to wake us, and he will come with the rising sun. We wish to be able to see his arrival.” I nodded. Atakam had taught me never to make light of another man’s beliefs. “We believe that when the shade passes into the spirit world, it travels across the bridge of stars to the south”, I said and pointed at the southern sky. “When the shades of the fallen warriors are ready to start their journey to the hall of Ulgin, they see the bridge of stars before them, and they know where to go. Else they could get lost. It is then that they return to torment the living.” “It is the old way”, Odovaker said. “When the Scirii lived on the endless plains, we served the old gods, as you still do.” “I must return to my men”, he said, and walked towards where the warriors were preparing their comrades for their final journey.

* * *

Odovaker turned out to be right. Although we set sentries, the Goths did not pursue us into the territory of the Heruli. We rode north at an easy pace, allowing the wounded to keep up. I spent much of my time speaking with Sigizan and Boarex. “Since the tribes were defeated at Bolia by Theodemir’s Ostrogoths, the Heruli’s power has waned”, Sigizan said. “Many of our young warriors died that day. We need new blood, new warriors to bolster the tribe.” “How will Abdarakos accomplish this?” I asked. “It is not an easy task. Our allies have suffered as well. The Rugii, Scirii, the Gepids and the Thuringians have all lost warriors. The Suebi have been all but annihilated – the warriors who remained have joined our ranks.” Sigizan took a swig from his wineskin. “To the south and east, we are pressured by Theodemir and his Goths. To the north the Longobardi are forever testing our borders. As if that were not enough, men like Odovaker come to lure our warriors away to serve in the armies of Rome.” “But is it not true that the Heruli need Rome? Who would buy the amber and the furs if not Rome?” I asked. “It is true”, he said and nodded, “we do need Rome’s gold. Even with all the challenges facing us, we will endure.” We rode in silence for a while. I knew Sigizan well enough to realise that something was weighing on his mind. I also knew that he would speak when he had gathered his thoughts. Eventually he took a deep breath. “The people have been asking for a king”, he said, “someone to lead them in times of peace.” This came as a shock to me. I was used to Abdarakos being the leader of the tribe. Sigizan noticed my confusion. “Abdarakos is the war leader of the Heruli, the erilar. He only leads his people in times of war. The Heruli have never followed the ways of the other tribes like the Goths, the Scirii or even the Huns. They have always been free men, who only answer to themselves, except in times of war when they choose the best, the wisest, among the warriors to lead them.” “But times have changed”, Sigizan said. “Since the death of the Great Khan we have changed our ways. We no longer move from place to place, we have stayed in Moravia for near on twenty years – ever since the death of the Khan, ever since you were born.” “But why now?” I asked. “After the death of the Khan, we have always been at war”, Sigizan explained. “The Heruli first fought to cast off the yoke of the Hun, then they fought against Theodemir and his tribe of traitors. But since Hunimund of the Suebi led us to a defeat against Theodemir’s Ostrogoths at Bolia, Abdarakos lost some of his power. Your grandsire is no longer a young man, and he is set in his ways. He is too honest and direct to play at politics. He is not a man inclined to use honeyed words – his way is the way of the sword.” I sensed a deeper meaning in his words and asked, “Who is the man using words of honey?” Sigizan grinned broadly. “It is like Leodis is speaking with your tongue”, he said. He could not have given me a bigger compliment and I grinned back at him. “His name is Rodolph”, Sigizan replied. “And he is from an old family.” “Who decides who will be king?” I asked. “The noble warriors do”, he said. “Will they choose Rodolph or Abdarakos?” I said. Sigizan shook his head. “Your grandsire does not wish to be king”, he said. “Like I said, he is a warrior, not a man who plays at politics.” “You know, Ragnar”, he said, “you could be our king.” I nearly fell from my horse. Insomuch that if Boarex had not grabbed my arm, I would have shamed myself in the eyes of the other warriors. Sigizan was not through. “In your veins flows the blood of the Khan”, he said, “and the blood of Abdarakos. Atakam, the most powerful of our holy men has taught you the way of the runes. It is no secret that the gods favour you – why else would they have healed your leg?” I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up an open palm. “Hear me out”, he said. “You have travelled to the Ice Islands in the north and to the Great City in the east where you proved yourself a great warrior. Even the prince of the Scirii owes you his life twice over.” He gestured with his chin towards a limb of the silver bow protruding from its case. “And the gods have given you the bow of Attila – it is a sign.” “And you know the way of the Romans”, he added. “You understand how they think and you speak their tongue.” For a handspan of heartbeats I said nothing. When I had gathered my thoughts, I put them to words. “I am no leader”, I replied. “I am not much more than a boy who is swimming in the river of life, trying to keep my head above the water.” For long we rode in silence, and to my surprise, Boarex spoke first. “We are all in the same river”, the big Hun growled. “Men who believe that they are better than that, men who believe that they can control their destiny, are fools.” He spat to emphasize his point. “A man like you gives hope to all, Ragnar. We are not blind to your struggles. But every time that you sink below the current, the gods reach out and pull you to the surface. That, Ragnar, is what gives men hope.” Chapter 31 – King

That evening I shared a meal of smoked boar and fresh flatbread with my friends. I decided not to partake in the drinking and talking that would no doubt continue deep into the night. “I need to speak with the gods”, I said, and stood from my place on the furs. There was none of the usual banter directed at a man leaving the fire early. Only a fool would dare to make fun of a man’s relationship with the gods. I walked past our tent and headed for the bank of the nearby stream. The crescent moon provided just enough light for me not to stumble on the uneven ground. I sat down cross-legged, facing the gurgling water, and laid my bearded axe on my lap, my right hand on the haft and my left on the cold steel of the etched head. Once the sounds of the night had returned, I started to breathe deeply, like Atakam had taught me. I prayed to Ulgin and to Donar. I asked them to guide me on my path. Never did I beg them to give me what I desired most – I had come to accept that it is folly to try to persuade the gods to bend to the will of a mere mortal. I sat there for long – deep into the night. At some point I might have fallen asleep, or mayhap I peeked through the veil that separates us from the realm of the gods. On the northern bank of the stream I noticed a white shape weaving its way through the trees. Slowly, as if emerging from fog, a girl wearing a white dress approached. She walked closer and came to a halt two paces from the water’s edge and sat down, cross-legged. Unni smiled a wan smile, meeting my gaze. She averted her eyes and I noticed that she drew something in the mud with her finger. I blinked to make sure that it was real, but when I looked up, she was gone. Yet again, the gods had answered my prayers with a riddle. Or maybe, just maybe, it was all just a dream.

* * * I discarded the thought. Why would I go back to search the bank? Surely Unni had not really been there. Surely she could not have left me a message. I decided not to visit the stream. Atakam would give me the meaning of the vision on my return to the Heruli camp. “Ragnar, today you will ride beside me”, Sigizan said, and mounted his gelding. To my surprise we headed along the greenway towards the stream. I said naught as we approached the place where I had spoken to the gods the previous evening. Sigizan reined in and carefully allowed his horse to pick its way across the rocky bed. When we emerged on the muddy northern bank, I could not keep my eyes from searching the mud. I went cold on the inside. Next to the hoof print of Sigizan’s horse was a rough marking drawn into the mud – it was the rune of Ansuz, the mark of Ulgin, the High One. “Are you well, Ragnar?” I heard Sigizan say, who must have seen my complexion turn ashen. “It appears as if you have seen a draugr.” “I may have”, I said and clutched the amulet I wore around my neck.

* * *

Atakam sat on the far side of the hearth. The leaves of the sacred tree, the linden, were entwined around his fingers. His eyes were closed, his brow contorted in concentration. The shaman opened his eyes, and his face relaxed. He met my gaze and held it for a handspan of heartbeats. Then he turned to Abdarakos and finally to Sigizan. All wished to know, but even the erilar, even Abdarakos, did not ask. “I have seen the runes that the norns, the weavers of destiny, have carved upon the Tree”, he said. Then he turned his head to the erilar. “What is it that you wish, old friend?” Atakam asked. “I do not wish for Ragnar to leave my side”, Abdarakos said. “Our people talk of times of peace, they say there will be long years with no war. They say that the Heruli can live in peace with the Longobardi and the Goths.” I could see the anger rising inside him in reaction to his own words. “But I know that war and fire will follow the Heruli wherever they go”, he growled. “I wish to show Ragnar our ways while I am still a warrior. Soon the time will come that I will end it all – it has forever been our way.” Atakam sighed. “You will have the opportunity do as you wish, erilar”, the shaman said. Abdarakos visibly relaxed. But Atakam held up his hand. “But it will not happen in the way you expect”, he said. “Ragnar must travel to the north, it is his fate. I have seen the runes – I must travel with him. You, Abdarakos, will accompany us, it is what Ulgin commands.” The big man stared back at the shaman without blinking, fire in his eyes. “Do you wish me to abandon my people?” he growled. “Do you wish me to leave them in the hands of a man whose only motive is greed? Is that what you want me to do?” Abdarakos clenched and unclenched his ham-like fists in an attempt to control his emotions. “Do you want me to tell you what you wish to hear, war leader?” the shaman said wearing a face of stone. “Or are you willing to listen to the words of the High One?” I could see the fire slowly draining from my grandsire. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Then he breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. “Tell me then, shaman”, he said. “Before the moon is full, Abdarakos, Rodolph will be king of the Heruli”, Atakam said, his voice cold and his eyes devoid of emotion. “If you stay, he will slay you. If you resist, your people will tear themselves apart and the sun will forever set on the mighty Heruli. But if you heed the words of the gods…” Then the old shaman stood, walked over to Abdarakos, and placed his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I know it is not what you wish to hear”, he said. “But if you trust in the will of Ulgin, all will be well old friend.” “What should I tell Prince Odovaker?” Abdarakos said. “He has requested that a thousand of our young warriors return with him to the lands of Rome.” Atakam answered without hesitation. “Give King Odovaker what he wants”, he said. Abdarakos frowned, no doubt confused by the shaman’s words, nodded, stood from the furs, and left the tent without looking back. Chapter 32 – Forest

Abdarakos sent for me seven days later. The two princes sat with him around the hearth in his hall. Odovaker and Ferderuchus stood and clasped my arm in turn. “It amazes me how closely you resemble the erilar”, Ferderuchus said. From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Abdarakos and I imagined I noticed pride in his eyes. “I have granted the wish of our guests”, Abdarakos said. “A thousand warriors will be ready to ride with the prince upon his return to the lands of the Heruli. I have also granted him the right to traverse our lands with the warriors that he will bring south from the lands of the Scirii.” Odovaker inclined his head to my grandsire. “You honour me, lord.” Abdarakos waved away his words. “Never did your father, Edekon, fail to honour his oaths. Side by side we bled for the freedom of the tribes. You, Odovaker, are a man cast in the same mould.” “As Ragnar is cast in the mould of his grandsire”, Odovaker said. “Not once, but twice has he come to my aid.” “It pleases me that the young wolves of the Heruli, the Scirii and the Rugii hunt together”, the erilar said with a smile, which the three of us mirrored. Then Odovaker’s smile disappeared and I noticed concern in his eyes. “I have heard rumours of the one called Rodolph, and I …” The erilar held up an open palm. “You are in the right to ask the question”, Abdarakos said. “I have not made this decision on my own. I have consulted with the elders of the tribe. If you pass through our lands on your way to Rome, and I have been stripped of my power, none would dare to defy the will of the council of elders. Not even a king, even if he is a fool.”

* * *

I woke with a start when Sigizan laid his hand on my shoulder. “Come, Ragnar”, he said. “It is time.” The waxing, humpback moon hung low in the sky, reminding me of the words of the shaman. Atakam, who was saddling his horse close by, looked up at the ominous clouds blowing in from the east. “Rodolph has been gathering support for months”, he said. “I am told that his dark plans are in place and that he is getting ready to do evil.” I raised my eyebrows. “Told by the gods?” I asked. Atakam issued a rare grin and slapped me on the shoulder. “A good spirit-warrior’s ears do not only hear the words of the gods. A shaman listens to the words of the people.” “You mean your informers?” I asked. The old man winked at me and cackled. “You have been with the Romans too long, Ragnar”, he said and waved away my words. “Come, Abdarakos is waiting for us where the Bystrice spills into the Morava, one day’s ride to the west.” “West?” I asked. “Are we not riding north along the Oder to Budorigum?” “It is what Rodolph would expect us to do”, Sigizan replied. “We will travel west, along the banks of the Bystrice, then turn north and follow the Morava River. It is a treacherous route through the dark forests, which only the brave and the foolish dare to use.” Atakam snorted in derision while he mounted. “You need to trust in the gods, Hun”, he said. “I will sacrifice to Ulgin on the summit of Snow Mountain, close to the heavens where the great river flows from the stone. Have faith, the High One will protect us.” I rode beside Sigizan and Atakam. Behind us, Asbadus and Beremud argued about whether scale or chain was the best armour, while Kursik and Boarex formed the rearguard. The sun was still high in the sky when we neared the place where we would meet my grandsire. The erilar and his hearth warriors emerged from the trees when we approached. “Come”, Abdarakos said, and gestured for us to follow. “We still have far to travel today.” The war leader gestured to me, and I fell in beside him. His oathsworn allowed a gap to form, affording us a measure of privacy. “I was not prepared to wager the future of the tribe on the words of a shaman”, Abdarakos said. I was shocked at hearing his words, but kept my counsel and nodded. He sighed. “But, alas, the shaman is right. I spoke with many elders and nobles who had supported me in the past. I sensed a coldness, as if they were trying to distance themselves from me. Some were bold enough to lay the blame for Bolia at my feet.” Abdarakos was a warrior, always quick to anger and slow to forgive. He said naught for a handspan of heartbeats and I knew he was allowing time for his anger to dissipate. He gestured at a hulking warrior riding behind us. All his exposed skin, except his face, was covered in swirling blue tattoos. The warrior acknowledged Abdarakos with a nod and a wolf-like grin. “Yesterday Pagos took one of Rodolph’s hearthmen”, the erilar said. “Pagos has a talent for loosening the tongues of unwilling men. They are planning to strike when the moon is full. We told all that we were going hunting, but soon enough Rodolph will notice that something is amiss.” “Will they follow us?” I asked. Abdarakos’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. “They only know of these twenty men”, he said, and gestured to his oathsworn. “Rodolph is not aware of you and your companions. He is no warrior. He will send forty men, maybe fewer. They will all die.” I looked into the cold, grey eyes of my grandsire and thanked the gods that I would not be crossing swords with the grizzly veteran. “It will be an honour to fight by your side”, I said. We followed the Morava upstream along the cart path that ran just off the eastern bank. Little light penetrated the thick canopy of green. Every so often the path would swing away from the bank, avoiding an enormous hornbeam, oak or fir. The path wound around another forest giant. “I can feel the presence of the old gods in these woods”, Atakam said. “When these trees were young our people still roamed the Sea of Grass far to the east. When our shades have crossed the bridge of stars, and the tales of our deeds have long disappeared from around the hearths of our grandchildren’s children, these trees will still be here. The lifetime of a man is but the blink of an eye for the ancient spirits that dwell within the trees.” “These spirits possess great power”, he continued, “and should not be offended.” I noticed Beremud giving the tree a wide berth. We made camp early, while it was still light enough to collect firewood. When darkness descended, we sat beside the cooking fire while large cuts of beef and mutton grilled above the searing heat. Beremud poured us each a cup of wine. “It is the last that remains from Venezia”, he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “From tomorrow it is mead and ale.” Our time travelling through the lands of Italia seemed like a lifetime ago. “Do you miss the Great City of Constantine?” Asbadus asked. “I miss the wine and the women”, Beremud said, and grinned “but I would rather drink mead in the lands of my kin than drink wine and live in a nest of adders.” I noticed all nodding their agreement. Just then, Abdarakos appeared from the darkness. He held up his palm before we could rise. “I will join you”, he said, and sat down beside me on the worn furs. “Sigizan, we will need the skills of the Huns on the morrow”, he said, and gestured towards the full moon barely visible through the canopy. “Rodolph will send his men tonight when they find our tents empty – when there is no blood to spill.” Beremud filled a cup with wine and passed it to the erilar who nodded a thank you. He took a long swallow and continued. “There are four of you who use the horn bow. Each of you will have to kill three, maybe four to even out the numbers.” “We have many arrows”, Sigizan said, “but an ambush will not work among the trees. Mayhap we could each slay one, maybe two, before…” Atakam held up his open palm and all, even Abdarakos, fell silent. “Many moons ago I travelled this path. I journeyed to the summit of Snow Mountain, which is close to the realm of the gods. I climbed the World Tree to the spirit world where Ulgin spoke to me.” Within heartbeats the shaman managed to capture our attention. All waited with bated breath to hear the words of the High One. But Atakam just stared into the flames and sipped from his cup. “What did Ulgin command?” Abdarakos growled. Atakam turned his gaze from the flames, a frown on his brow. “I cannot speak the god-message”, he hissed. “Do you think me a fool, warrior? Do you wish to change all of our destinies?” Few men could speak to my grandsire in such a way, and live, but the ways of the gods are forever shrouded in fog, and Abdarakos respected it. I saw no anger in his eyes as he inclined his head to the shaman. Atakam waved away the apology. “The words of the god are for me alone”, he said, then issued a smile. “But what I will tell you is that close to the summit, where the water runs from the stone, the land is devoid of trees.” Chapter 33 – Sacrifice

“I remember you mentioned a sacrifice”, I said as we exited the thinning forest and emerged onto open ground. Atakam nodded absentmindedly, occupied with his own thoughts. “Where is the animal? Surely it cannot be a horse?” I asked when I received no answer. The shaman ignored my words. “Watch the path and leave the sacrifice to me”, he barked and pointed to the rocks littering the greenway. “The ground is treacherous for horses.” We slowly made our way to the summit, ascending the mountain along a steep track on the southern slope. On both sides of the path short shrubs and dense grass concealed the hazardous rocks beneath. Many years of travel had levelled out the trail, but to the right the ground fell away at a steep angle to the valley floor far below. I heeded the words of my mentor and allowed the Hun horse to slowly pick its own way up the mountain. Nearer to the summit the slope became less steep, and levelled out on either side of the trail. To our left, close to the peak, grew a copse of firs, while outcrops of rocks and small thickets of pine were visible on the gentle slope to the right. Abdarakos pulled on his reins and pointed to the copse of fir trees. “If you hide amongst the trees you will kill many before they reach you. No one can ride across this ground – they will have to run. It will allow you to slaughter many of them before you retreat.” “The gods wish otherwise”, Atakam said, and clicked his tongue to urge on his horse. Abdarakos’s face morphed into a scowl and he shook his head. To his credit he did not argue, and we followed the shaman who was already drawing ahead. He continued along the path until we reached the flat ground at the summit of Snow Mountain. I dismounted next to an outcrop at the side of the road and scrambled to the top. It felt as if I stood on top of the world. I could see for miles and miles, across the endless hills and valleys of the lands of the Heruli. For a span of heartbeats I could not tear my eyes away, but then my grandsire spoke. “Come, Ragnar, the mist is nearly upon us.” I turned around and stared down the slope, the way we had come. A thick, ominous fog was slowly creeping up from the valley below. “Ulgin favours us”, Atakam said. “He is sheltering us from the eyes of our enemies.” The old man pointed south to where a steep, rocky path led down the side of the mountain. “Come, we need to go to the birthplace of the water.” Two hundred paces down the path Atakam pointed to a pile of stones to the left of the track. We walked our horses closer and dismounted. Clear water gurgled from beneath the stone and flowed down the slope, disappearing into the valley below. The shaman fell to his knees beside the water. He muttered words in the language of the ancients, pressed his lips to the water, and drank deeply. Atakam scooped water into his hand and gestured for the erilar to approach. “Drink”, he said. One by one we drank the sacred liquid while the shaman blessed us in the language of the gods. When all had had their turn, he pointed to the west. “There you will find what you seek, Abdarakos”, he said. “Let the Huns kill them from afar, and when they approach, fall upon them like a thunderbolt.” I noticed the skepticism in my grandsire’s eyes, but he turned his horse’s head and we trotted through the tall heather to where the shaman had pointed. Abdarakos suddenly reined in and I was forced to pull back hard on the reins, insomuch that my horse reared up. Strewn before us, invisible from the source of the river, was a belt of small boulders, twenty feet wide. We dismounted and walked across the barrier to the open ground on the far side. This patch of level ground was fifty feet wide, again bordered by rock-strewn ground on the far side. Abdarakos shook his head in amazement. “This is a slaughter ground”, he whispered. “It is as if the gods have placed the stones.” He pointed to the first belt of stones. “You and the Huns will rain arrows upon them from here”, he said. “They will come for you, but the stones will force them to advance on foot.” He gestured towards a copse of trees fifty paces distant. “My hearthmen and I will conceal ourselves amongst the trees and ride them down on the level ground. It will be as easy as killing vermin”, he added, and spat on the ground to emphasize his point. On our return, my grandsire rode up to Atakam. “You truly are god- touched, shaman”, he said. “When I came here last”, Atakam said, “I nearly broke my ankle on those rocks when I tried to find a shortcut.”

* * *

The sun was low in the sky and dusk nearly upon us. Sigizan, Kursik, Boarex and I lay flat on our stomachs in the tall grass, our strung bows at the ready. The barrier of rocks in front of us protected us from a wild charge by the enemy. Fifty paces to the north, the erilar and his oathsworn were concealed amongst the trees. The mist sent by the gods enveloped us, further shielding us from the eyes of our foe. Atakam had insisted to hide close to the sacred fountain. None dared to gainsay the old man. Eighty paces in front of us, to the east, a single horseman descended the path we had used hours before. He studied the trail and there was no doubt in my mind that our tracks were clear to follow. He walked his horse up to the stream and allowed it to drink from the water. “By all the gods - he has doomed himself by his own hand”, Kursik whispered. “He has allowed his horse to drink from the sacred water.” When his horse had drunk its fill, the scout gazed in our direction for long, then picked his way back up the slope. Moments later a body of horsemen crested the hill and negotiated their way down the path. They all allowed their mounts to drink from the stream. Beside me Kursik was shaking his head while he pursed his lips. “They know not what they do”, he whispered, drawing an angry look from Sigizan who held his forefinger to his lips. I counted the horsemen. There were forty-three warriors. Rodolph had erred on the side of caution – sending forty-three against twenty secured the outcome. But the gods were on our side. Sigizan whispered the command, and as one we stood. The four arrows in our draw hands left the strings in less than six heartbeats. The first of Rodolph’s men were writhing on the ground, skewered by armour-piercing arrows, before they realised that something was amiss. A warrior, mayhap the leader, pointed to our position and shouted a command. He tumbled backwards from the saddle as Sigizan’s arrow slammed into his torso. The enemy warriors drew swords and hefted spears. Angered by our attack they surged towards us. We paced backwards, into the cover provided by the fog, while we continued to release arrows. Rodolph’s men covered the open ground to the edge of the boulders in heartbeats. They were riding too fast to rein in and the lead horses tumbled forward, hurtling their riders onto the boulders. We had enraged the men, who were now leaderless. The thirty remaining men vaulted from their saddles and skipped across the stones. We turned tail and ran. I ducked when I heard the whoosh of a spear. It grazed my helmet and skidded along the ground. We reached the second belt of stones and turned to face the enemy. From the far flank, Abdarakos and his hearthmen slammed into the warriors who were intent on catching us. Their horses bowled over half of the enemy warriors who disappeared underneath the hooves. The remaining men fought bravely, but fifteen men on foot are no match for twenty horsemen. And the hearthmen of Abdarakos were the best of the best – the veterans of Atilla’s never-ending wars. Within moments silence descended, apart from the occasional grunt that could be heard as the hearthmen speared the wounded. Abdarakos walked his horse towards us. He inclined his head. “You all did well”, he said. “But the gods favoured us – why I do not know.” He pointed with his bloody sword towards the corpses littering the ground. “They, too, are Heruli. We all serve the same gods.” From the direction of the fountain emanated a strange wailing sound. We saw the shaman, his arms extended to the heavens, pleading to the gods. “Maybe that is the reason”, Beremud said, and pointed at Atakam. I left the warriors to loot the dead and walked towards the old shaman. He had collapsed from exhaustion, a blood-stained dagger in his hand. A step away lay the corpse of the leader of the band of Rodolph’s men, the one who had been unhorsed by Sigizan’s arrow. I noticed that his throat had been opened and that the stream flowed red with blood. Atakam had found a way to make his sacrifice after all. Chapter 34 – Usipetes

Three days later we left the Sudetes, the Mountains of the Wild Boars, in our wake and exited onto the flatlands via an unnamed river valley. “If I were Rodolph I would have dispatched men to Budorigum”, Abdarakos said. The erilar stared towards the north for long, then shook his head. “Only a fool would risk passing through the town. No, we will go north, bypass Budorigum, and enter the lands of the Usipetes. We will cross the Oder at the place where the hawthorns grow, the place the local peasants call Glogow.” He pursed his lips. “There are rumours that the Longobardi and the Usipetes are at each other’s throats”, he sighed. I had heard of the Germani Usipetes but knew little of them. “Are the Usipetes friendly towards the Heruli?” I asked. “They will slit our throats and sacrifice us to Ran if they find us in their lands”, Abdarakos answered, and kicked his horse to a canter.

* * *

We rode north and west, skirting the forested foothills of the Boar Mountains. Although the Heruli were the masters of the lands we traversed, the tribe had little interest in the wellbeing of the peasant farmers, forest dwellers, and remnants of defeated Germani tribes who inhabited the borderlands. The Heruli cared only to maintain their iron grip on the riches that flowed down the Amber Road. We rode past small villages where the few peasants who called it home mostly melted into the forest when they became aware of our approach. From time to time our path crossed with small bands of mounted men, no doubt Germani raiders, who scattered in all directions as soon as they clapped eyes on us, none wishing to test the reputation of the feared Heruli wolves. We continued to ride north and west until early the second morning, when the fog-covered slopes of the mountains fell away to the west. Abdarakos then turned his horse to the north. An hour later he reined in near a stream flowing from west to east. The erilar pointed to the eastern horizon, from where dark clouds were blowing in on the back of an icy wind. “Budorigum lies forty miles that way”, he said. In reaction to the erilar’s words, Sigizan took his bow from his saddle, slipped the limb behind his ankle, and strung it in the proven way. “What your grandsire means, Ragnar, is that we are riding into the lands of the Usipetes, which is on the other side of that stream.” All around, the warriors strung bows and loosened their swords in their scabbards. Abdarakos motioned for me to lead the way. I walked my horse through the muddy water which fortunately only reached up to its elbows. The far bank was slippery with mud and the light rain that had started to fall made it worse. More than once my mount stumbled, but thankfully Hun horses are sure-footed. Nonetheless, I breathed a sigh of relief when we eventually reached firmer ground. I no longer had a reason to keep my eyes on the treacherous ground, and as I turned my horse to the north, I looked up - straight into the empty eye sockets of a half-decomposed human skull. My horse reared up. Only by the intervention of the gods did I manage to remain in the saddle and not shame myself in the eyes of the other warriors. When I managed to regain control over my horse, I noticed many skulls mounted on top of spears which were rammed into the soil. The gory heads were in various stages of decomposition. Some looked to be weeks old while others had been bleached white by the elements. Sigizan and Abdarakos reined in beside me. The Hun reached into his purse and handed a silver coin to the erilar. “I wagered that you would fall”, he said with a grin. “Most do the first time.” “It is the way of the Usipetes”, Abdarakos growled. “It a warning to all not to enter their lands.” He motioned to the skulls. “These fools did not heed the warning”, he said, and led the way into the unknown.

* * *

We rode north, keeping to the lesser-travelled paths and greenways, our way scouted by the hearthmen of the erilar. The interminable rain which drenched us to the skin also kept us safe. The bad weather confined most of the Germani to their huts, but more importantly, the heavy rain washed away our tracks. The flatlands through which we travelled were covered in forests of hornbeam and oak. From time to time we waded through marshy meadows of black alder and ash. We skirted swampy ground and peat bogs, crossed countless streams, and struggled up rocky inclines overgrown with pine. More than once the scouts led us in an arc, avoiding small Germani farms that were not much more than fields planted with barley or einkorn, and a few cows munching away in a meadow. By the grace of the gods the rain subsided late in the afternoon. With the thick cloud cover, dusk arrived early and we had no choice but to make camp close to a bog. We were not fool enough to risk lighting fires and we spent a miserable, wet evening huddled inside our tents. We ate hard cheese and dried venison while swatting at the swarms of little flying vermin that feasted on our blood. Morning did not arrive too soon. We woke early, but waited for first light to take on the unknown ground. “If the gods are with us”, Abdarakos said, and mounted, “we will leave the territory of the Usipetes by late afternoon. I passed through here many years before when Atilla was still master of all the land. If my memory serves me right, we only have twenty miles to cover before we reach the river marking the border.” The sun pierced the leafy canopy as the erilar spoke the words. I knew that all would see it as a good omen, but my eyes searched for the one man whom the gods allowed to peek through the veil of time. Atakam was staring up at the sky. He turned his head in my direction and met my gaze with eyes devoid of emotion. My stomach churned because I knew the shaman better than most. It was not yet noon when an outrider arrived on a lathered horse. “Lord”, he said, and swallowed awkwardly, trying to find the words. “Lord”, he began again, “there are thousands upon thousands of Germani warriors to the west. They are moving north towards the lands of the Longobardi.” Abdarakos nodded. “Did they see you?” he asked. The warrior shook his head. “We will continue our journey north”, the erilar said. “But we will be careful.” Three of Abdarakos’s wolf warriors scouted ahead on foot while we advanced at a walk. We spoke little and kept away from the paths, preferring to pick our way along the forest floor where the thick carpet of leaves softened the sound of the hooves. Two hours past noon I started to relax. I silently chastised myself for my black thoughts and thanked the gods that I had refrained from sharing them with anyone. Just then the scouts staggered into our path. Two of them were supporting the third between them, blood seeping from a wound in his side. The warrior collapsed to his knees in front of the erilar. “I have failed you, lord”, he said. “There were two, lord, they concealed themselves in the branches. One escaped, lord.” While Atakam tended to the injured scout, Abdarakos issued orders. “We have little time”, he growled. “We will ride north and east to skirt the Usipetes horde”, he said. “The time for caution is gone. Speed is of the essence.” “Keep your weapons at the ready”, he added. “The Usipetes are known for their horsemanship, and they are familiar with the lay of the land.” An hour later, where the trees made way for fields, we noticed the pursuit for the first time. Although the Hun horses were tireless, the mounts of the Usipetes were bigger and faster. Sigizan, Boarex and Kursik tried to slow them down by releasing arrows across the rumps of their horses. But there were more than sixty Germani, and the loss of a few warriors did not slow them down, it only made them more determined to catch us. It was nearly dusk when they finally caught up with us. They were less than a hundred paces behind us and closing the gap with every stride. Two hundred paces in front of us was the curving treeline which bordered most rivers of the land. “We turn to face them when we reach the bank”, Abdarakos yelled. “Else they will simply spear us while we are struggling through the river.” We reined in and entered the greenwood at a canter. Eighty paces farther we spied the bank of the river. It took us mere heartbeats to dismount and form a shield wall, our flanks anchored by thick shrubs. On my left stood Asbadus and Kursik and on my right Beremud and Boarex. I saw the grim determination on the faces of my friends. I clenched my jaw and tightened my grip on my bearded axe and decided that I would sell my life dearly. With spears hefted, the Usipetes galloped into the greenwood, weaving through the trees. But when they realised that we were not attempting to escape across the river, they reined in and vaulted from their horses. They were big men, tall and broad in the shoulders, with dark beards and brown, braided hair. They wore a mismatch of armour and clothing but their shields were all similar. The oval wooden shields, sporting round copper bosses, were stained with dark yellow ochre at the top while the bottom halves were dyed red with cinnabar. Within moments the Usipites formed a shield wall of their own. The speed with which they dressed their line did not bode well for us. These men were no strangers to war. “They fight with spears”, Abdarakos’s deep voice rose above the din. “They wish to keep us at a distance. When they are near, we close the gap at my signal. And do not underestimate them, they are a vicious breed.” The Usipetes approached at a jog, chanting their battle song. The front rank held their spears low, overhand, while the whetted blades of the second rank were held underhand, ready to strike at head height. It seemed foolish to attack with an overhand grip, but I heeded my grandsire’s warning. When they were five paces from our line they came to an abrupt halt and their spears snaked out as one. Even though I was forewarned I was still caught off guard. The warriors in their front rank struck with the speed of vipers. They did not target their obvious opponents, but attacked from a distance, targeting every second man in our line. My eyes were focused on the warrior opposite me, who thrust his weapon low, with a skill I did not think possible. My first thought was that his spear would never reach me, but he leaned forward with the thrust and allowed the haft to slip through his hand, gaining another three feet. The move was akin to casting the spear while keeping hold of the knobbed butt. Instinctively I lowered my shield, and the iron head glanced off the metal boss. The warrior to the left of my opponent effectively mirrored the move of his comrade, but rather than strike low, at Asbadus’s legs, his spear was aimed directly at my face. I did not notice this until it was too late. But Asbadus did. His axe snaked out and deflected the iron tip, causing it to cut a groove into the side of my helmet. Down our line I heard shouts where the blades of the Usipetes had found their marks. “Now”, Abdarakos boomed. I moved my head to the right and the overhand thrust of the snarling warrior in the second rank scraped against the cheek guard of my helmet. The Heruli shield wall crashed into the line of the Usipetes. We were rewarded with screams as the wolf warriors drew blood. My bearded axe was strapped across my back. This was close-quarter work and I wielded the hand axe favoured by the Huns. The man I faced had dropped his spear and I saw the glimmer of a blade. I raised my shield and deflected the strike. I lashed out overhead with the axe in an attempt to strike the arm of the bearded warrior, but he was deceptively quick and my axe struck nothing but air. I lowered my shield to peer over the rim. His hand moved like lightning as he thrust at my face. But I had been trained in this manner of combat for long hours. I moved my head to the left, confident that the thick chain riveted to my helmet would protect the base of my neck. At the same time I dropped my shield. With all the strength I could muster I jerked my left arm up, and the iron-bound rim of my shield struck the arm of the warrior. I was rewarded with the sound of his wrist snapping. Without hesitating I swung overhead, my razor-sharp axe imbedding itself into the face of his shield. I used the axe as a lever and jerked his shield down, stepped forward, and slammed my helmet into his face, his nose exploding in a spray of blood. But the warrior behind him was no fool and used the opportunity to strike out with his spear. I turned my shoulder, attempting to avoid the thrust, but the tip of the whetted blade caught in my mail, tore through links, and scored a line along the side of my shoulder. The injured man who faced me fell away to the rear, and another, a massive warrior, stepped into his place. The giant punched with his shield and there was so much power behind the blow that I staggered backwards, creating a gap in our line. His spear flashed. The head pierced Asbadus’s leg and my friend collapsed onto one knee. The Isaurian had the clarity of mind to raise his shield to deflect the inevitable killing blow. The giant drew back his spear and without thinking I threw the axe with all my power. It bounced off the giant’s shoulder, diverting his attention for a heartbeat, allowing the Heruli to close the line once again. We were outnumbered and all knew the inevitable outcome. I shrugged off the fatigue, regained my footing and forced myself into the line between Kursik and Beremud. Again I faced the giant, who snarled and thrust at my face. I dodged the blow, but realised that I had lost my hand axe. A madness came over me and I took the bearded axe from my back. I dodged another blow from the big man, dropped my shield and swung my axe in a great arc. The bearded giant raised his shield but the blade of my axe was forged from seric iron in the lands far to the east. The shield split in two and the axe lodged in the soft copper boss. The big man’s eyes widened. He let go of the useless shield and it fell to the side as I jerked my axe from the splintered wood. The giant grinned, clearly pleased that I had discarded my shield. “Now you die, boy”, he growled in the tongue of the Germani, stepped forward, and thrust at my neck. My right hand found the butt of the haft of my axe and my left hand gripped just behind the head. I raised the axe in a high guard with the blade pointing to the sky, the haft parallel to the ground. I stepped back with my right foot, lowering my body and thrust the haft upward. The block deflected the mighty thrust and it missed my head by inches. I pivoted my hips to the right, released my left hand from the haft and pulled down and to the side with all my power. The bearded giant tried to retrieve his spear, but the oversized head caught in the gap of the bearded axe, between the blade and the haft. The head of the axe came around and my left hand found the blunt end of the head. Not even the god of war himself could have held onto the spear with the advantage of leverage and the weapon flew from the giant’s iron grip. I stepped forward, feigned with the axe and kicked the big Germani warrior in the groin. He stumbled backwards, his face contorted in agony. From the middle of the line, the leader of the Usipetes shouted a command with urgency in his voice. The enemy stepped back as one. We were all close to collapse, and even if we wished to, we were unable to pursue. It took only heartbeats for the Usipetes to collect their wounded and dead. They vaulted onto their horses and galloped back the way they had come. I took off my helmet from my sweat-drenched head and saw the reason why our enemy had fled. The forest to our right seemed to take on a life of its own, and from the gloom, a multitude of warriors emerged - big men with long braided beards The Longobardi had arrived. Chapter 35 – Champion

Aldihoc, the king of the Longobardi, was of medium build, but by the way the powerful warriors who surrounded him acted, it was clear that he was no one’s plaything. “Well met, erilar”, he said, and walked towards Abdarakos, whose hands were bound behind his back. The king issued a snicker and shook his head. “The tribes are forever fighting over these wretched forests. We are done with this land of bogs and snow. The Longobardi are moving south, we will make a home for ourselves in the fertile lands of Rome.” “Rome will not stand idly by while you take its riches”, Abdarakos growled. “The Longobardi have no need for gold and silver”, Aldihoc sneered. “We are not wolves like the Heruli. We do not steal the fruits of other men’s labour. All we wish for is to farm the land. I have heard that in Noricum the fields lie idle. Rome has lost interest in its people.” The Longobardi king shook his head. “Rome is weak. We will move south, grow in strength, and give our people what they desire most.” “The Usipetes will never allow you to pass through their lands”, Abdarakos replied. “Neither will you overcome them without losing half the strength of your tribe.” “Let me show you and the pup”, Aldihoc said. He whispered to a guard who drew his dagger and cut our bonds. We exited the tent, and from our vantage point on a slight rise, we saw a mighty host camped along the bank of the Oder. There were hundreds, no thousands, of cooking fires, and I heard Abdarakos draw breath. “You have united the tribes”, the erilar said, and shook his head. Aldihoc laughed out loud. “It is a ruse”, he said. “Only two warriors share a fire. The Usipetes will see the many fires and they will tremble with fear. Mark my words, tomorrow they will wish to parley.” “Your kind fills me with revulsion”, the king added, addressing the erilar. “But I need all the warriors I can find, so I will give you a choice.” “A choice?” Abdarakos said. “Yes, Heruli”, he said. “Either you all join me and give me your oaths, or you die. I want your answer before the sun sets tomorrow.” * * *

The Longobardi kept us in a large tent, our ankles clapped in chains to ensure that we did not escape. Beremud stood as soon as Abdarakos had retold the tale. “There is only one choice”, he growled, “and it is death.” Atakam was tending to Asbadus’s wound. None of the Longobardi had dared to shackle him. The old shaman stood then and walked towards Beremud, who suddenly appeared decidedly uncomfortable. “If the norns wished to snip your thread, do you think that you could change your destiny, Goth?” Atakam asked, his voice suddenly carrying an edge. Beremud’s eyes darted around nervously, trying to find support from us, but it was to no avail. He swallowed. “No”, he answered. “Then why do you think you are able to choose death, Goth?” he sneered. “Are you a god? Can you influence the destiny of men?” Beremud shook his head, realising that words would not serve him well. Atakam snorted. “Then leave our destiny in the hands of the gods”, he said, and turned around to tend to Asbadus. While the other men were focused on the shaman, I studied Abdarakos, who tried to hide the hint of a smile that had formed around the corners of his mouth. We went to bed on empty stomachs, but we were weary from the fighting and soon all were asleep. Even with the uncertainty of our fate, we slept like the dead. The Longobardi guards woke us early when they entered the tent with a cauldron of barley porridge and a pitcher of water. We had barely broken our fast when a guard shoved aside the flap, my bearded axe in his hand. “Which one of you wields this weapon?” he asked. “I do”, I replied, and stood from where we crouched next to the cauldron. “It is the pup, lord”, I heard him call to another. “Bring him”, a voice commanded. The guard gestured with his chin. I shuffled to the door and ducked through the opening. Five paces away stood a tall man flanked by two guards. He was dressed in fine garb, rounded off with a thick green woollen cloak, trimmed with fur. It was clear that he was a noble. He regarded me for long, then asked, “Can you wield the axe?” “Better than most”, I replied, deliberately not addressing the man as ‘lord’. The warrior who stood beside the door noticed my defiance and drew back his arm to slap me, but the noble raised an open palm and cowered the guard with a fierce stare. He turned to another guard and whispered an instruction. The warrior nodded curtly and departed at a jog to give effect to the wish of his master. “And for the sake of the gods, get that off him”, the noble said, pointing at the shackles. A blacksmith was summoned and he removed the irons. Moments later, the guard arrived, carrying two pieces of wood which I immediately identified as hafts of axes. A hulking warrior followed the guard. The first thing I noticed was his face, as he was a head taller than the man in front of him. Two red welted scars criss-crossed his face, which was ugly to begin with. His hair hung to his shoulders but, strangely, the front half of his skull was shaved bare, giving his head an elongated appearance. Like all the Longobardi, his long, thick beard extended halfway down his torso. The big man stepped out from behind his escort and bowed to the noble. “Prince Godehoc”, he said, “how may I serve you?” “Rothar”, the prince said, “I wish for you to test the skills of the pup.” “My name is Ragnar”, I corrected the prince defiantly. “The pup has spirit”, Rothar growled. The champion accepted both the hafts from the guard. One at a time he weighted them in his right hand. He retained the haft he preferred and threw me the other. Rothar nodded as a signal that he was about to begin. The giant regarded me with caution, and I realised then that he possessed a keen mind. The big man walked towards me and aimed a thrust at my midriff. I stepped back with my right foot, placing it behind my left. This moved my body away from the blow so that my left side was angled towards the attack. At the same time I raised my left hand and lowered the right, turning the staff vertical, then struck out, meeting his thrust and safely directing it away from my body. Rothar had made his first mistake. I noticed that he was still moving forward, and I did not hesitate. My body was turned to the left, and as I blocked his thrust with a vertical haft, I pushed down with my right hand, driving his staff towards the ground. Simultaneously I raised my left hand, and the butt end of my haft came around. I put my back into it and struck his weapon a mighty blow, less than an inch from where he held it. The haft clattered to the ground. I took two steps back and settled into a low reverse guard. Rothar shrugged, picked up the staff and looked at the prince for instructions. Godehoc gave a near-imperceptible nod, and again the big man attacked. A handspan of heartbeats later Rothar was picking up the haft again. Twice more the prince nodded, and twice more Rothar attacked. “You could have killed me if you wanted to”, the big man growled when he picked up his weapon the last time. “What good would it have done?” I asked, and handed him my weapon.

* * *

The king sent for me and my grandsire before the middle of the morning. “My ruse worked”, he said, and it was clear that he was pleased with himself. “Early this morning I received a message from the king of the Usipetes. He suggested that we settle this dispute by way of single combat.” By the look on his face I could tell that a complication had arisen for which the king had not planned. He sighed. “Traditionally, the Usipetes settle their disputes with combat by axe – on this they will not budge. Apparently”, he added with a scowl, “it is the old way, the way it has been since the gods walked middle-earth.” “And you wish for this pup to be your champion”, Abdarakos said, “because the Longobardi use the longsword.” Aldihoc nodded, then turned to face me. “If you defeat the champion of the Usipetes, I will give you all your freedom. If you lose, your grandfather and all your men will die.” “Do I have a choice?” I asked. “No”, he said, and issued a humourless smile. Chapter 36 – Osgar (October 471 AD)

The hulking Usipetes warrior’s short-sleeved tunic displayed his heavily muscled arms, the multitude of gold and silver armbands a testimony to his martial prowess. He flexed his bull-like neck, rolled his shoulders, and hefted his bearded axe. “You?” he growled. It took me a moment to place him - he was the one who had wounded Asbadus, the one I had kicked in the groin. “Is there no man among the Longobardi?” he sneered while white spittle flew from his maw. “Are they a tribe of women and boys?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I am a Hun.” This did not please him. The blade of his axe moved horizontally from right to left in a backhanded sweep, a cut aimed to disembowel. I skipped back two paces, the head of the axe missing my tunic by inches. “You cannot run forever, boy”, he said and changed his grip, giving away his intention. “I hear that the Huns are done for, they are finished. Like you, they are now slaves of dirt eaters.” “The blood of the Khan will continue”, I said, and rotated my axe so that the butt was near my left hand with the blade facing skyward. He struck out, a rising cut from left to right. My right hand, held close to the head, rotated the blade towards my left, while my left hand moved closer to my body. It was meant as a strike, not a block, and the head gained momentum. I tightened my grip as the two blades collided. A piece of iron as large as my hand broke from the beard of his axe. “It would have served you better to have traded the gold and silver trinkets for good iron, fool”, I said, and noticed that his confidence had vanished. “I will not kill you, I will allow you to live. You will hear the warriors laughing around their fires while they drink their cheap swill. When you approach, they will be quiet, but you will know that they told the tale of the champion defeated by the boy.” Leodis had told me that for some men there are fates worse than death. My opponent feared humiliation more than anything. My attempt at angering him seemed to work, and he charged at me while aiming an almighty swing at my head. I went to a high guard, my blade parallel to the ground, the butt close to my right hand. As his axe descended, my left hand slid toward my right and I stepped back with my left foot, placing it almost behind my right foot. I met him haft to haft. My body pivoted sideways and the power behind his blow drove my axe to the ground, the blade of his weapon lodged between the beard and the haft of my axe. I twisted the haft and his axe was wrenched from his grip. Then I stepped in and head-butted him full in the face, which served to wipe away his expression of surprise. He staggered backwards, his hands feverishly trying to wipe the blood from his eyes. I changed my grip, rotated the axe and struck him with the haft against the side of his skull. The Usipetes champion crumpled to the ground. “The blood of the Khan is not finished, pig”, I said, and raised my hands in the air. Paces away, Aldihoc and his entourage stood grinning like boys. I had the strangest sensation that somehow I had altered destiny.

* * *

“At least they were true to their word”, Boarex said from beside me on the rowing bench. The big Hun had earlier insisted that I be his rowing partner. “Tell me again”, he said. “I have told you more times than I can remember”, I replied. “And you will have to tell it many more times”, he said. “It gets better every time.” I scowled. “I can’t tell a tale and row at the same time.” He grinned, knowing that I was tired. “Just keep your hands on the oar, I will row for both of us.” It was a good trade-off, and I told the story again. Soon after we shifted oars. I stretched my tired back and made my way to the stern where Asbadus leaned against the board, his leg heavily bandaged. Atakam sat close by, either in a trance or sleeping. On the steerboard side, Abdarakos held the steering oar. “I am fit enough to take my turn at the oars”, Asbadus growled, no doubt filled with pent-up frustration due to his wound. I gestured with my chin towards the sun hanging low in the western sky. “It will have to be tomorrow, then”, I said. “The erilar will be seeking a place to rest for the night.” Asbadus grunted, acknowledging my words. Slowly the boat’s stern turned towards the setting sun and I noticed we were heading towards a village near the water’s edge. “The Varni, who are masters of these lands, have strong bonds with the Scirii”, Abdarakos said. He touched his hand to his tattooed cheek. “These markings will protect us, the Heruli have no quarrel with the Varni.” My grandsire shouted orders. Moments after the oars were shipped, the boat slipped in alongside the bank. Abdarakos grinned proudly, clearly pleased with his manoeuvre. “In the early days, when I was your age, Ragnar”, he said, “I spent three years raiding the coast with Mourdagos. When I grip the oar, and I feel the power of Ran, it is as if I am young again.” From between the huts a group of men approached. They carried shields and spears. “Come Ragnar”, Abdarakos said. “It is time to talk.” I noticed that the warriors facing us were all well-armoured and carried spears tipped with iron heads. Even their clothes were of good quality. Abdarakos noticed as well, and nodded his approval. “The river brings trade, and trade brings prosperity”, he said. “But prosperity attracts enemies. A wise leader spends his coin on armour and weapons.” A man of an age with the erilar stepped forward from the group, and we halted two paces from him. For a span of heartbeats nothing was said as the two men summed each other up. Abdarakos broke the silence. “I am Abdarakos of the Heruli. I wish to trade for food and water. We seek a safe berth for the night.” The man touched his hand to his forehead and inclined his head. “I am Osgar of the Varni. You are welcome to my hall, war leader. Your reputation is well-known in these lands.” Abdarakos touched his forehead and inclined his head in response. “It will be an honour to share your mead, Osgar of the Varni.” Osgar turned out to be a fine and generous host. Once we had traded for provisions, the chief entertained us all to a feast in his hall. My grandfather occupied the seat of honour on the Varni chieftain’s right. “There is much upheaval in the lands of the Heruli”, the erilar said. “I have decided to travel north to seek out my kin, the Boat Heruli.” Osgar nodded. “Across the river, to the east, the Slavs have become restless. They steal across the water and raid our lands. The Varni have allied with the Scirii. Together we are strong. There are few who can defeat us.” “The Longobardi are moving to the lands of Rome”, Abdarakos said while great platters stacked with sizzling boar were carried in by slaves. “And the Usipetes have allowed them passage through their lands?” Osgar asked and stuffed a fatty piece into his mouth. My grandfather told the tale of our capture and my fight with the Longobardi champion. “If I knew not your reputation, erilar”, he said, “I would have thought that you are a monger of tall tales. But it is said that you speak the truth, no matter the outcome.” Osgar’s words were intended as a compliment, and Abdarakos inclined his head. “What news is there from the north?” he asked. Osgar sighed. “When the Great Khan was master of all the land, all of us, including myself, complained much about the heavy yoke.” He drank deeply from his cup of mead. Abdarakos nodded his agreement. “But now”, Osgar continued, “things have taken a turn for the worse. There is much strife in the northern lands, where every minor headman thinks himself a king. This is starting to affect the flow of Amber.” I listened with half an ear and took a long swallow of the sweet, herby mead. We spent the night inside the warm hall of Osgar. Early on the morrow, with a thin mist floating on top of the grey water, we pushed our oars through the rowlocks and set off towards the north. Chapter 37 – The All-Seeing One

Mourdagos embraced me in a bear hug, driving all the air from my lungs. “By all the gods, Ragnar”, he boomed, “what took you so long? We heard the tales of how a young warrior defeated the champion of the Usipetes”, he said. “A young Heruli with a bearded axe, fighting like Donar himself.” He slapped my back hard. “By all the gods, boy, I knew it was you.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You are welcome in my home, cousin”, he said. Then he turned to Abdarakos, his brother-in-law, and his expression turned serious. “I have heard whispers of treachery”, he sneered. “Say the word, brother, and I will call the Boat Heruli to war.” Abdarakos sighed and clasped arms with Mourdagos. “It is tempting”, he said, “but the holy man tells me that my fate lies elsewhere.” I could see that my grandsire was moved by the words of Mourdagos, by the loyalty of his friend. “I will start a new life and show this young wolf the way of the warrior”, he said, and gestured to me. “The offer stands”, Mourdagos said. “Let us not waste our time on talk then, let us feast and honour the gods for keeping you safe.” Later that same evening when all had feasted on boar and mutton, and most were deep into their cups, I stole away from the fire and found the place beneath the tree where I had watched the river in the moonlight years before. Like the first time, Mani illuminated the water rushing towards the faraway sea. I thought of Leodis, my Greek father who had taught me so much. But I was no longer the boy I had been, and I realized that, like me, Leodis had been bound to his fate. With the one hand, the gods had taken much. But with the other they had given freely. I heard Mourdagos’s footfall behind me and it brought a smile to my face. “Do you believe in fate yet?” he asked. “More than you know, uncle”, I replied. He nodded, and I sensed that he approved. “Trust in the gods, Ragnar, follow your destiny, and you will have much to tell when one day we feast in the mead-hall of Ulgin.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “Come, let us feast, for tomorrow we will take Ran’s road north”, he said. “And you know she can be a fickle bitch.”

* * *

Mourdagos stood beside Abdarakos, who was grinning from ear to ear. The longship surged forward under the combined power of the oars, traversed the crest of a wave and pitched forward. I closed my eyes and tightened my grip on the board in anticipation of the spray of ice-cold water. “This is better than war, brother”, Abdarakos said, and shook his head to clear the water from his eyes. “Come, Ragnar, it is your turn.” I placed my hand on the oar and experienced a strange sensation - it was as if I wielded the power of Donar. The ship crested another wave and I found it impossible not to smile. Abdarakos slapped my back. “It is in your blood, Ragnar. Ran favours you.” Early afternoon, five days after departing from the camp of the Boat Heruli, Mourdagos pointed south and east to the white cliffs of a headland. “It is the holy place of the Varni, the place where they keep the white stallion of their god Vid, the one who sees all.” He steered the boat towards a sandy beach five miles west of the towering white cliffs. “We cannot land too close to their holy place. We will take on water and food before we cross the Austmarr on the morrow.” As soon as we had finished lugging the longboat above the high-water mark, Mourdagos gave the order to make camp high up on the beach against the treeline. “I am a guest-friend of the local headman”, he said. “We have a good understanding. I pay him well for supplies and leave his lands untouched. In return he allows us to camp on this beach.” The local headman, whose name I don’t recall, appeared soon after. The chief, accompanied by two warriors, emerged from a path between dunes and slowly trudged towards us. “I will speak with them”, Mourdagos said and waved away our attempt to accompany him. He met the chief fifty paces down the beach. Their long interaction included much gesturing towards the white cliffs. Eventually Mourdagos handed over a fat purse to the smiling headman. They clasped arms and parted. “The tribe has brought in the last of the harvest. Tonight they have a feast in honour of their god. I told them that we have a powerful holy man amongst us. They have invited him and one other to join them.” Atakam, who was kneeling over a pile of wood nearby, righted himself. “Ragnar and I will go”, the shaman said, and bent over again. Mourdagos exchanged glances with Abdarakos and shrugged. “Who am I to question the will of the gods?”

* * *

Behind the high priest, near the edge of the cliff, stood a statue of the four-faced warrior god. The depiction of the god was carved from the trunk of an ancient oak. Each of the faces was painted in the colours of the four directions. The priest stood behind a massive honey cake, nearly shielding him from view. “Can you see me?” the priest shouted three times. “We can barely see you”, the people answered in unison. He thrust his hands in the air. “We beg you, Great One, to bless next year’s harvest. Make it so bountiful that I will be invisible to the eyes of your servants.” The people cheered while two priests picked up the cake and carefully laid it at the feet of the god. They lifted the large metal drinking horn that was affixed to the statue and carried it towards the high priest. The priest filled seven silver pitchers with mead and his underlings passed it to the people, who shared the mead amongst them. “Vid shares his bounty”, the priest said. “Let us beg the High One to reveal the future.” A young priestess stepped forward and mounted the sacred white stallion. She used no saddle and rode with her arms extended to the side, her eyes closed. Her lips moved in silence, muttering incantations to invoke the god. The horse circled the statue, coming precariously close to the edge of the cliff. Chanting, the high priest arranged the spears in the prescribed manner and stepped to the side. The horse approached at a gallop and jumped over the crossed spears. A deathly hush fell upon the crowd. The priest staggered backwards, as if he had received a blow to the chest. The horse came around and reared, right in front of where Atakam and I sat. I turned to the shaman and whispered, “What does it mean.” “I am no servant of Vid, but I would wager that it is not a good omen”, he said. “Best is we get back to the boat before we find out.”

* * *

When we arrived back at the camp, all were abed. At the insistence of Atakam we departed an hour before dawn the following morning. “It is a good thing that Mourdagos’s guest-friend did not get the opportunity to speak about the happenings of last night”, the shaman said, leaning against the board at the prow. “Are you not concerned?” I asked. “Vid is not a god of our people”, he said with a sigh. “Put it from your mind.” I knew the shaman well enough to notice the worry in his eyes. Chapter 38 – Ansuz

I kept my gaze on the horizon, expecting the wrath of Vid. But the storm never came. We glided across the Austmarr, its surface resembling the shiny bronze mirrors I had often seen in the Great City. By noon a fresh breeze picked up, but it blew in from the south and west, aiding our progress. By late afternoon we laid eyes on land. Mourdagos gestured with his chin towards the distant cliffs on the eastern horizon while pushing the steering oar to the east. In response the boat veered to the port side. He barked an order and the rowers picked up the pace. “The Sea-Danes are the masters of Rock Island”, he said. “They watch from the heights while their ships wait in the bay on the far side of the headland, ready to fall on prey.” I made eye contact with Atakam. He scowled in response to my dark thoughts. Abdarakos picked up on the exchange. “We will know soon”, he said. We sighted no ships for the best part of an hour and I began to relax. Just then Kursik called out the alarm, and pointed at two shapes just south of the eastern horizon. Rather than quicken the pace, Mourdagos issued the order for the men to stop rowing. “Arm yourselves”, he growled. “Let us show the Sea-Danes that they have poked the bear. Let us show them why the Heruli are feared in every part of middle-earth. Let us take their ships as plunder and sell their warriors into slavery.” An almighty cheer resounded to the heavens. Sigizan, Kursik and Boarex strung their bows while Asbadus, Beremud and I assisted one another to don our armour. I stood between Boarex and Asbadus at the prow, our axes slung over our shoulders. The ships of the Sea-Danes approached, but their pace had slowed. They were no doubt cautious of the strange ship and the warriors who did not fear them. I noticed that their longships had fifteen oars a side, compared to Mourdagos’s ship which boasted twenty-five. “They outnumber us”, Boarex growled, “but not by much. When they see the patterns of our shields, they will reconsider the wisdom of engaging us.” Less than a heartbeat later, even before the Huns had released their arrows, the Sea-Danes started backing water, veered to the port side, and raced back the way they had come. “Reputation matters”, Boarex growled from behind us. From the stern, Atakam met my gaze, wearing his ‘I told you so’ expression. I scowled in reply.

* * *

For a man who believes that fate is determined by the gods, nervous anticipation is a waste of time. Yet I could not help but breathe deeply to try and rid myself of the knot in my stomach when we approached the beach I knew so well, the beach below Runaville. “How long has it been?” Mourdagos asked in a near whisper. “Thirty times the moon has risen since you have stolen me away from this shore”, I said, and the knot in my stomach tightened. My words carried no blame, and I added, “And I am a better man for it.” The big man put his arm around my shoulder. “She will be waiting”, he said. I nodded. “I know”, I replied. “I have I spoken with her.” Mourdagos nodded his understanding. The rowers shipped their oars, and heartbeats later the prow of the longboat gently slid onto the shore. Behind me, Asbadus, Boarex, Kursik and Beremud donned their armour. I held up an open palm. “I am going alone”, I said. Eventually they relented, but as a trade-off I agreed to wear my full armour. I gripped my axe in my hand, vaulted over the board of the longboat, and landed on the shingle. I ascended the hill along the familiar dirt path which meandered through the greenwood, and it felt as if I had walked there the day before. At the top of the track I rested for a moment, and leaned against the trunk of a familiar pine. I breathed deeply and rounded the last turn. Nothing remained of the proud little village but a few blackened logs – the same logs that I had cut with my bloodied hands many years before. A sudden gust of wind came from the north and stirred up the ash, shrouding the scene in a fog-like mist. A part of me died that day, there on the path to Runaville. I felt myself slipping below the surface of the river of life, and I had no desire to return for breath. Slowly I made my way to what remained of Runa’s hall. I recognized the copper ladle, ruined by the heat, and the clay bowls Unni was so proud of. Where the stables used to be there were charred remains of bones and horns. I turned my head away in disgust. I saw the stones of the old hearth and picked my way towards it. Inside the hearth on the large, flat stone was the rune of Ansuz marked in charcoal. I removed my helmet and wiped the tears and ash from my eyes with the back of my hand. I blinked, but the message was still there, thick and black. The hand of Ulgin grasped my shade and pulled it from the depth of despair.

To be continued … Historical Note

The politics of the Roman Empire, especially the Eastern Empire, during the period covered by this book was a quagmire of political backstabbing. There were a myriad of role-players and an even more complicated web of family connections. The same applies to the ‘barbarian’ kingdoms that sprung up inside and outside the borders of the empire. I therefore focus on a few main players, highlighting major events, rather than paint a complete textbook-like picture that would, in my opinion, overcomplicate the book and detract from reader enjoyment.

* * * Main characters Ragnaris is a Hun name with Germanic origins. He is a fictional character, following the journey of the Heruli through the fifth century AD. Attila was the king or khan of the Huns. Leo the Thracian was the East Roman emperor from 457 AD to 474 AD. It is said that he was a Bessian. Flavius Zeno was an Isaurian and reigned as Byzantine Emperor from 474 to 491 AD. (Albeit with a short interruption during 475/6 AD). His birth name was Tarasis Kodisa Rousombladadiotes. Flavius Ardabur Aspar was of Alanic-Gothic descent. From 424 AD until his death in 471 AD he was the real power behind the purple of the Eastern Roman Empire. He was an Arian Christian, and therefore not eligible to be emperor (some say that it was because he was of barbarian stock). Ardabur and Patricius were his sons. Ildiko’s name is recorded in history. She was the bride of Attila and probably of Germanic origin. The Heruli family and friends of Ragnaris are all fictional. That includes Abdarakos, Mourdagos, Sigizan, Atakam, Leodis, Kursik, Beremud and Asbadus. Unni and Runa are fictional. They represent the Svear-people and their agrarian culture. The name Trokondas is not fictional. Trokondas (or Trocundes) was an Isaurian general, famous in history with his brother Illus. Trokondas was often an ally of Zeno and often an enemy. Theodemir was the king of the Ostrogoths and the father of Theoderic the Great. Geiseric was the king of the Vandals, a Germanic tribe which, together with Alans, conquered North Africa and established the Vandal Kingdom. Their ships caused havoc in the Mediterranean through piracy and coastal raids during the second half of the fifth century. It is said that he was a very clever and resourceful man. Ferderuchus and Feva (Feletheus was also known as Feva) were the sons of Flaccitheus, King of the Rugii. After Flaccitheus’s death, Feva became king. Feva was married to an Ostrogoth woman by the name of Gisa, close family of Theodemir’s. Rodolph became the king of the Heruli during this time. It is not known who preceded him, but John the Deacon mentions that he was the last of their kings. Aldihoc was the king of the Lombards during the middle of the fifth century AD. His son Godehoc succeeded him somewhere around 480 AD. Blood of the Khan - Storyline

Professor Maenchen-Helfen believed that in 467 AD the Huns under Dengizich, the second son of Attila, lived on the Walacchian plain north of the Danube, present day Romania. In 467 AD the two remaining sons of Attila, Dengizich and Hernach, asked Emperor Leo to be allocated a marketplace on the Danube where they could trade with the Empire. Leo rejected their demands, but told them that if they bowed the knee to him, he would welcome them into the Empire as allies. The reason for extending the hand of friendship is not known, but it is speculated that Leo wished to undermine the power of Aspar (the powerful Gothic master of soldiers) by settling the Huns in Moesia and expelling the Moesian Goths of Theodoric Strabo (The Squinter). The negotiations eventually broke down and the Huns invaded Roman Moesia across the frozen Danube. The general guarding the frontier was a man of Gothic descent called Anagastes. His father was killed by Attila at the battle of the Utus River and he was no doubt hostile towards the Huns. Anagastes and Aspar were no fools and they surely realised the implications of allowing the horde of Dengizich to settle among the Goths in Moesia. I believe they would have done their utmost to ensure that no agreement was reached. The war between Dengizich’s Huns and Anagastes’s men lasted two years (from 467 AD to 469 AD). At one point, Anagastes trapped the Huns in ‘a hollow place’ and they sued for peace. Through trickery Anagastes turned the barbarians against one another. Many were killed, but when they realised the treachery, they broke out. Eventually, the protracted war ended when Dengizich was killed. His head was sent to Constantinople and displayed on a pole at the Wooden Circus. I shortened the war to begin and end in 469 AD, as too many concurrent hostilities can be confusing. After the head of Dengizich was sent to the city, Anagastes expected to be made consul, but he was overlooked in favour of Flavius Jordanes, the magister militum of the eastern armies. This was surely done to anger the Gothic camp. Soon after Anagastes rose in revolt. This revolt was most probably orchestrated by Aspar to draw Zeno away from Constantinople. Zeno was sent to Thrace to deal with the problem. Before Zeno departed, Daniel the Stylite was consulted. He prophesied as per the book. Zeno and the emperor probably visited the holy man during the day, but the night excursion added some spice to the story. It is speculated that Aspar recommended to Leo to send Zeno against Anagastes. As a result, Leo was left isolated in Constantinople while Zeno became vulnerable to an assassination attempt. At some stage during the campaign, soldiers bribed by Aspar, closed in on Zeno, but he was warned and managed to slip away to Serdica. From there he fled east, eventually ending up in Antioch where he served as magister militum per Orientem (master of soldiers/high general) of the eastern armies. Much speculation exists about the route taken by Zeno when he fled east. I support the theory that he travelled south from Serdica to Thessalonica. This theory proposes that he travelled east on the Egnatian Way to the Chersonese Long Wall, from where he took a boat to Pylai where the main route to Isauria (and Asia Minor) started. I see no reason why he could not have travelled by boat. In any event, the important part is that he wished to avoid the capital and the men of Aspar. During the latter part of 470 AD, Patricius, the third son of Aspar, was appointed Caesar, on condition that he renounced his Arian faith in favour of the Orthodox religion. He then married a daughter of Leo. Most believe that he married Leontia, Leo’s second daughter, but there is a theory that Aspar forced Ariadne to divorce Zeno and marry Patricius. I used this second option, as it provided much needed excitement. With Zeno in exile, Aspar and his sons became bold, and it is said that they openly conspired against him and even tried to lure the Isaurians to their side. In the year 471 AD, Emperor Leo had Aspar and his sons killed. The circumstances surrounding the assassination are not clear. In a letter, Emperor Leo mentions that “I put to death Aspar and Ardaburius so that nobody should oppose my orders.” Zeno must have been involved in some way, as he was across the strait in Chalcedon. There is one version of events that I favour, a story told by Nikephoros Kallistos Xanthopoulos: Aspar and Ardabur promised not to plot against Leo. Based on this, Leo allowed Ariadne to marry Patricius. But they continued plotting and one day during an event in the hippodrome, the people of the city turned on them. Aspar and his son fled across the strait to the Church of St Euphemia at Chalcedon. Leo sent the patriarch, Gennadius, to negotiate with them and they agreed to come out only if the emperor guaranteed their safety. He did so and when they went to dine with him in the palace, Zeno, who was hiding on the property, had them decapitated. After these events, Leo acquired the nickname, “Leo the Butcher”. In the year 471 AD, Flavius Odoacer/Odovaker was a senior officer in the Western Roman army. He seemed to have chosen to side with Ricimer, the accomplished general and kingmaker, in his fight with the Western Emperor, Anthemius. According to Paul the Deacon (supported by Procopius), the Herulian king during this time was called Rodolph. On their southward migration the Longobardi clashed with a powerful tribe called the Assipitti. Some believe they were the same as the better- known Germanic Usipetes. The Usipetes denied the Longobardi thoroughfare of their lands and assembled a mighty army to block their route. The Longobardi realised that they could not emerge victorious against such a host. Eventually, through trickery, the right to traverse the land of the Germani was decided by single combat between champions of each tribe. According to Paul the Deacon, the warrior who volunteered to fight for the Longobardi was a slave or a captive. Random Items

I read a fascinating study on bird bones excavated from and around ancient Nicopolis ad Istrum. Apart from domestic birds, like chickens, a variety of game birds were hunted. These include pheasant, grey partridge, quail, and a variety of wild ducks. The species indicate that, during days of old, woodlands and marshy wetlands were widespread in the area. The bones indicate that birds were mainly cooked in water, rather than roasted over flames. The structure of the Roman army evolved over the years. The large infantry legions of old were just a distant memory by the fifth century. Diocletian and/or Constantine are credited with the major changes at the end of the third century and the beginning of the fourth. During the fifth century the army was divided into two main groupings which contained the traditional legionary soldiers as well as auxiliaries (foederati). Both types contained infantry as well as cavalry:

The frontier armies, limitanei (the soldiers at the frontier) or ripensis (the soldiers on the riverbank). These units were under provincial command. The mobile field armies, comitatensis as well as the elite palatini units, which were under the direct control of the emperor and his senior commanders. These units are believed to have numbered around one thousand men.

The fish caught by the duplicitous peasant was a huchen, also known as a Danube salmon. In 1938 a specimen weighing 58 kilograms (128 pounds) was recorded. The Aegean Sea (Mediterranean) is connected to the Black Sea by two narrow waterways with a wider part (sea) in between. This ‘wider part’ is called the Propontis (Sea of Marmara). Should one travel by boat from the Aegean (Mediterranean) to the Black Sea, the route will be as follows: From the Aegean, travelling north, one passes through a waterway known in ancient times as the Hellespont (Dardanelles) into the Propontis (Sea of Marmara). From the Propontis (Sea of Marmara), travelling north, one passes through the Bosporus waterway into the Black Sea. Constantinople is situated on the Bosporus. Just north of the city there is an estuary that serves as a natural harbour. This is known as the Golden Horn, and is seven kilometres long and nearly half a mile wide at it widest point. The name Propontis apparently derives from Greek: pro (before) pontos (sea, in this case the Black Sea). The gold solidus was introduced at the beginning of the fourth century by Diocletian as a replacement for the gold aureus. In the Eastern Empire, the solidus was referred to as the nomisma (plural nomismata). This coin was a standard of international trade until its debasement in the eleventh century. This solidus/nomisma (N) was struck at 72 to a pound of gold. A modest wage is calculated at 12N per annum, while the head of a large administrative district received up to 720N per annum. One gold nomisma bought fifty pounds of cheese or 730 litres of cheap wine. Apparently a high- ranking general could accumulate a fortune of a thousand pounds (72 000N) of gold during his lifetime. The galleys of the Byzantines were called dromons. These boats were propelled by oars, but it is believed that they also used a basic sail which allowed them to sail into the wind when required. The sail, which is called a lateen, is also known as a latin-rig. This configuration is still used by coastal fisherman in the Mediterranean. Salacia was the Roman goddess of salt water. Her Germanic counterpart was Ran. In the lands of Rome, Neptune was the god of fresh water. Starboard, being the right side of the ship, gets its name from ‘steerboard’, which refers to the side where the steering oar is attached. Most steersmen were right-handed, thus the attachment to the right side. Ships moored with their left side along a quay to prevent damage to the steering oar. From there the term portside. Grappling hooks or grapnels were apparently first used by the Romans in 260 BC in their wars with Carthage. Procopius (sixth century Byzantine historian) wrote that the Vandals were tall and handsome with, white hair and white skin. Roman warships were rowed by free men called remiges (rowers) mainly recruited from provinces with a seagoing tradition. Slaves were only used when manpower was at a shortage. In the case of a small dromon, I took the liberty of assuming that the legionaries also rowed. As soon as the ship engaged in battle, the centurion (and no longer the captain) commanded all aspects of the ship. The Norse god of vengeance is called Vidarr. Only Thor’s strength surpasses Vidarr’s. The Germanic peoples believed that the runes possessed magical attributes and that they could redirect fate. Antioch possessed street lighting in the fourth century. It is uncertain what the situation was in the City of Constantine. There is evidence that in later years shop owners were required to maintain oil lamps on the street in front of their shops. A myriad of tunnels exists underneath the Hagia Sophia, located close by the old Byzantine Palace. Although most of these tunnels remain unexplored, archaeologists believe that some were used by emperors of old to move around the complex without being seen. After his assassination, Aspar’s estate was apparently confiscated and used to build churches. The average speed of a Roman ship is estimated at five knots, which is close to six miles per hour. From the ashes of Pompeii, archaeologists have excavated a well- preserved caupona, or Roman pub, for lack of a better word. The establishment was called Asselina’s Tavern. From there the name of the barmaid in the story. The border between Italy and Noricum was north of the passes, somewhere between Emona and Poetovium. Most of the history of Noricum during the late fifth century comes from the writings of Eugippius, who recorded the deeds of Saint Severinus of Noricum. Severinus did predict the kingship of Odovaker. The holy man played an important part in stabilising Noricum - he was also a confidant of Flaccitheus and Feva, both Rugian kings. The town of Glogow in Poland is derived from the word glog, which is Polish for hawthorn. The white cliffs on the southern shores of the Austmarr is Cape Arkona in modern-day Germany. In days of old, the Slavs worshipped the four-faced god Svetovid (also Vid) in a temple which is now the ruins called Jaromarsburg. Apparently the people who occupied the land before the Slavs, probably the Varni (no one can be sure), also served this god who was associated with war and divination. Interestingly, each of his four faces was painted a different colour: North - white, west - red, south - black and east - green. One school of thought associates this with the naming of the Black Sea and the Red Sea by the Persian Achaemenids. The tribe kept a white horse dedicated to the god and used it for purposes of divination. Place Names City of Constantine – later known as Constantinople, then Istanbul, the capital of Turkey. Hadrianople (Adrianople) in Thrace – Edirne, Turkey. Serdica – Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. Pylai – Yolova, Turkey. Chalcedon – a district of Istanbul, on the Asian side. Venezia in Italia – Venice, Italy. Emona in Italia – Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. Poetovium in Pannonia – Celje, Slovenia. Virunum in Noricum – Zollfeld in Austria. Lauriacum in Noricum – Enns, Austria. Favianis in Noricum – Mautern un der Danau, Austria. Camp of Abdarakos – Hranice in Moravia, Slovenia. The origin of the Morava River – Kralicky Sneznik mountain peak, on the border between the Czech Republic and Poland. Budorigum – Wroclaw, Poland. Rock Island in the Austmarr – Bornholm Island. Runaville (fictional name) – Area of Herrhamra, Sweden. Author’s Note

I trust that you have enjoyed the second book in the erilaR series. My aim is to be as historically accurate as possible, but I am sure that I inadvertently miss the target from time to time, in which case I apologise to the purists among my readers. Kindly take the time to provide a rating and/or a review. I will keep you updated via my blog with regards to the progress on the third book in the series. Feel free to contact me any time via my website. I will respond. www.HectorMillerBooks.com

Other books by the same author: erilaR Series

Book I – Stranger from Another Land

The Thrice Named Man Series

Book I – Scythian Book II – Legionary Book III – Sasanian Book IV – Transsilvanian Book V – Goth Book VI – Roman