Another shape in the gloom. The hold on Ballista vanished. He shot up, broke the surface, sucking in air. The head of the Rugian appeared. It was twisted in pain. Maximus surfaced behind him, closing in again.
‘Do not kill him!’ Ballista shouted.
Maximus enveloped the pilot, driving him back under. Ballista was unsure if the Hibernian had heard.
Ballista took a deep breath and prepared to dive again.
Maximus bobbed up. He had the Rugian. The latter was curled, not fighting. Maximus spat and grinned. ‘He will not die. I just gave his balls a little squeeze.’
Wada the Short swam to them. Maximus stopped smiling. Together they got the Rugian back to the boat. The crew hauled them aboard, the Rugian roughly.
‘Tie his hands.’
Water sluicing off him, Ballista went to the prow. Both longships were pulling towards them. Brondings or not, their intention was obvious.
‘Reverse positions.’ Ballista retrieved his boots, sat to pull them back on.
The helmsman had already got the steering oar at the stern inboard. He rushed past, slotted the other one into position. The rowers reversed their places on the benches.
‘One, two, three — row.’
The blades bit the water. The boat seemed to hesitate, then edged forward. With the second stroke, it gathered way. In moments they were gliding fast away from the threat. It was one of the beauties of a double-prowed northern warship.
‘Bring the pilot here.’ Ballista walked to the new prow, struggling back into his sword belt.
Maximus thrust the bound Rugian to his knees. Wada the Short gave the captive a clout around the head.
Ballista leant down, took hold of the man’s chin, tipped it up. With his other hand he drew his dagger, ran it across the man’s throat with just enough pressure to cut the skin. He held the bloodied point just in front of the man’s left eyeball.
‘I want there to be no misunderstanding between us. If they catch us, you will be the first to die.’
The Rugian said nothing.
‘Take us back into the delta. Find us somewhere to hide. You know these waters; the Brondings do not.’
Ballista touched the eyelid with the dagger. ‘Will you do this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tie him to the prow. Diocles, watch him. Maximus, help me arm. Those with mailshirts, make your choice whether to wear them.’
The pursuing longboats were still about half a mile behind when the boat slid around a bend and they were lost to sight.
The marsh closed around them. The green water ran down the sides of the boat. There were no sounds of pursuit, just the splash of their oars in the water, the creak of the rowlocks, the breathing of the rowers. The pilot conned them, just loud enough to carry the length of the boat to the helmsman.
Perfidy aside, the Rugian knew his calling. Watching the colour of the water, he guided them this way and that, ever deeper into the labyrinth of the delta. At length, he had them pull towards what looked to be a solid bank. The keel scraped through mud. Parting the hanging branches of two willows, they emerged into an isolated backwater. Midges were thick in the air. Black vegetation wrapped itself around the blades, weighting them down. Some duck flapped up off the surface and wheeled away. After fifty or so strokes, the channel forked. The pilot guided them to the left. The little channel dog-legged, then opened into a still, black pool.
There was a dilapidated hut. They ran the boat up next to it. Castricius, Tarchon, Rikiar and the Wada brothers swarmed ashore. The rowers and steersman reversed positions. Ballista and Diocles jumped out, ready to push off. They waited, tense, as the landing party searched the hut and its surroundings. Maximus kept a blade to the throat of the Rugian.
Satisfied there was no one in the vicinity, Castricius waved them ashore. There was no need to tell anyone to be silent, not even Zeno, Amantius or their slaves.
Ballista sent Tarchon and Rikiar struggling back through the mud and undergrowth to keep watch where the channel divided, and posted Wada the Tall and two of the Romans as sentries away from the water. When they were in position, Ballista got out of his war gear and soaking clothes. Maximus and Wada the Short did the same. Naked, they towelled themselves down and put on dry things from their chests. Nothing else was unloaded from the boat.
The sun arced up across the sky. The duck returned. There were moorhens on the pool as well.
Ballista went and spoke to the Rugian. ‘Your king betrayed us to them?’
‘Perhaps. I do not know. There are several passages to the gulf. He told me to use that one, take my time getting there.’ He stopped abruptly, as if reluctant to say more.
‘What?’
‘If I tell you, will you spare me?’
‘That depends.’
‘The news of your coming ran long before you. There was another Angle here. He left just two days before you arrived.’
‘One of my brothers?’
‘No. A tall, thin warrior. He wore a hood. I did not talk to him. He did not dine in the hall. He spoke with the king alone. Then he left in a small boat. But there was a longship out in the roads.’
Ballista mulled this over, but could make little of it.
‘Will you let me go?’
‘This is what will happen. We will lay up here until dark. Tonight you will take us out by unfrequented ways. There are many channels out of the delta. The Brondings cannot be watching them all. If we get clear, I will put you ashore somewhere to the west.’
‘If not?’
‘Use the daylight to plot our course.’
‘If we run into them?’
‘You will die.’
XIX
The Vistula Delta
Snakes were everywhere on this river, big fuckers, absolutely fucking everywhere. Maximus knew he should get some rest. There would be none to be had tonight. But in this dismal marsh it was hard to find a place where a snake could not get at you. Most of the crew had stretched out on the bank near the hut, dozing in the sun. That was just asking for trouble. The snakes could swim, and the boat had a low freeboard, so that was no good either. The idea of a pointed black head, forked tongue flicking, eyes full of malice, sliding over the gunnels, thick, grey body coiling after, slithering up while you slept, all defenceless, was too horrible to contemplate. Fuck, he hated snakes.
Maximus could not settle. He went and sat with Ballista. One of the half-witted Harii, the taller one, was droning on about one of his relatives who was a shape-changer. When the fellow went to sleep his spirit roamed the woods in the form of a bear. Absolute fucking nonsense. Perhaps the Greeks and Romans, like that little shite Zeno over there, were right and northern barbarians were stupid beyond belief. Of course, the southerners did not know much about Hibernians. Not many of them came to the island, and quite a few that did had not been alive to leave.
Some cannabis would have been good. But with the gods knew how many longboats full of Brondings combing the delta there could be no lighting a fire. Cold food and no cannabis: it was going to be a long day. It seemed an eternity since he had had a woman. Now the other of the Harii, the short-arsed one, was talking about another relative. Apparently this one wore women’s clothing to help him communicate with whatever benighted gods haunted the forest. It appeared that holding a horse’s severed cock helped the process. Maximus had had enough of this.
Saying he would stand watch, Maximus left. Having collected some things from his pack on the boat, he made his way to where the creek divided. It was hard going, mud sucking at his boots. He used his sword to probe the reeds for snakes. You could never be too careful.