Ballista dismounted before the high-gabled hall of Heoden, the king of the Harii. Without asking permission of anyone in the courtyard, he ordered his men to stable the horses. The guards looked down from the surrounding palisade, and children peered around outbuildings. Ballista stood with Zeno and the eunuch Amantius, and waited. Nothing could be heard from inside the hall, but smoke issued from the smoke holes in the roof. When his men returned, Ballista led them to the iron-bound door of the hall and pushed it open.
The hall stretched away. It was lit by torches and the fire that burned in the central hearth. Long tables and benches ran down both sides, the high table along the far end. The throne behind the latter was unoccupied. Men sat at most of the benches. They were all dressed in black, silent and watchful. It crossed Ballista’s mind to wonder what the Greek Zeno behind him was making of all this. Possibly he saw himself as Orpheus or some other hero stepping into the underworld. It was all very familiar to Ballista.
Enough space had been allocated on the left-hand benches for Ballista and those who followed him. Up near the high table, it was an ale-bench of sufficient honour. Ballista led them through the hall. Their boots thumped on the boards of the floor, their spurs and war gear jingled. At the table they remained standing.
An elderly warrior got up from his seat at the foot of the empty throne. He addressed Ballista in formal tones. ‘Is this the Dernhelm son of Isangrim who left this hall as a boy of fifteen winters? Despite the beatings we gave him, he remained stubborn and full of boastfulness. Even the famed night-fighters of the Harii could not teach him how to set an ambush, how to move in the dark. He seems little changed except for his years. We heard that, undissuadable by friend or foe, his pride urged him to seize the throne of the Caesars. Once perched there, he found the eminence too high, and threw himself in the dust before a statue of the emperor, sobbing and begging for mercy. Despite that humiliation, he looks around now as if the hall of his foster-father Heoden is beneath him.’
A low hooming of approval came from the black-clad warriors of the Harii.
‘Gifeca,’ said Ballista, ‘the drink lends eloquence to your tongue; although your wife always said it unmanned you in other ways. She could tell you how I moved in the dark all those years ago. No wonder she told me that a sober youth was more use to her than a drunken man.’
The Harii snorted into their ale.
Ballista had not finished. ‘No whisper has ever reached me of any deeds of Gifeca of the Harii among distant enemies, no perils or ambushes survived by daring swordplay. He has killed a few bare-arsed local tribesmen, but at the mere mention of the red-crested legions of Rome or the fierce Persians, it is said, old Gifeca reaches for more drink or shits himself with fear.’
Now the Harii laughed, banging the tables. Gifeca himself grinned, walked across to Ballista, and enfolded him in his arms. ‘It has been a long time, you little shit.’
Finding it hard to speak in the bear hug, Ballista grunted in assent.
The formal flyting over, servants brought in more drink. Ballista got little of it, as many of the Harii who were companions in his youth or were kinsmen of his mother wanted to talk.
No sooner was there a lull than Ballista had to get back to his feet as the king entered the hall. Heoden led his queen by the hand. He stood in front of the throne, she by his side. His hair was white; hers golden. He looked over the hall, and the ale-benches fell silent as he began to declaim.
‘Tonight in the hall of the Black-Harii, the Walkers-of-the-Night, we celebrate the return of Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, my sister’s son, my foster-son. Since his time among us, no man of the north has travelled further or won higher renown among distant peoples. Like the Allfather his ancestor, he goes by many names. The Romans know Ballista, the Persians tremble at the name Nasu, the Tervingi run from Vandrad. And we feast his Battle-companions. From the way they carry themselves, I am thinking it is not exile but adventure and boldness of spirit which brings them here. They will have many tales to relate as we feast. At no other time is the heart so open to sincere feelings or so quick to warm to noble sentiments. Let the soul of every man here be laid completely bare in the freedom of friendship and festive surroundings.’
As the Harii roared, Heoden seated himself on the dark, rune-carved throne.
Ballista thought the king had pitched far too high the praise of the ill-assorted Romans and Olbians who followed him. The eunuch Amantius had never shown himself possessed of much of an adventurous disposition. Still, the words might well have pleased Zeno, if he had been able to understand any of them.
The queen took the feasting cup, and, as was only right, offered it first to her lord, the guardian of the people. The theoden tasted the mead, and pronounced it good. She passed among each part of the hall, offering the treasure-cup to every man according to his rank. After the eorls of Heoden had drunk, she came to Ballista.
‘Greetings, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. I give thanks to the gods that my wish has been granted to meet the nephew of my lord.’
Ballista put the cup to his lips. The mead was bright and sweet. The girl was good to look at, her arms very white. She was young, this Myrging princess, Heoden’s new wife. Ballista thought of Julia.
The queen looked into Ballista’s eyes. ‘All hold you in honour, even to the cliffs at the world’s end, washed by ocean, the wind’s range. As you remember the benevolence of my lord in your youth, so I am sure you will repay answerable kindness to the young sons I have given him, and guard them honourably.’
Ballista said he would. Like his own father, Heoden had married several times. The king of the Harii had older sons from his previous wives. Everywhere in the world where one man ruled, inheritance was a problem. It could not be otherwise, unless by custom the eldest took power, and then an unworthy man might sit on the throne.
Servants brought in food: great platters of roast meats, hot bread. Ballista drank from a silver goblet with scenes of men assaulting a city on it, most likely the seven against Thebes. A thing of great worth, made by a Roman craftsman, it was filled with local beer.
As the drink went round, the warriors became boisterous. Crude jokes and outrageous boasts were joined by hard words. Drinking vessels and fists slammed down to give weight to what was said. A bone was thrown, then another.
The target was an ill-favoured warrior seated at the end of Heoden’s hearth-troop near the door. The first missiles went wide, and he tried to ignore them. Those near him edged away. His tormentors were his own companions among Heoden’s men. A beef bone caught him on the shoulder. A roar went up. More things were thrown. The victim ducked and tried to fend them off.
Lithe as an eel, Maximus vaulted the table. He caught a bone in mid-air, turned and hurled it back. The warrior who had thrown it was too surprised, too slowed by drink to move. It hit him in the forehead. He crashed backwards like a felled ox.
There was silence in the hall. Warriors got to their feet, reaching for their weapons, outrage in their movements.
Ballista climbed over the table, stood between Maximus and the men on their feet. ‘My friend Muirtagh has a good arm and a good heart. The odds seem unfair. It is unseemly for many to persecute one.’
Castricius and Diocles came to stand by Ballista. A moment later, Heliodorus joined them. As the latter moved, the other Romans and some of the Olbians got to their feet. No one had yet drawn a blade, but violence was only a moment away.