The Wolves of the North

A Warrior of Rome Novel

Maps

The Roman Empire in
AD
263

The Pontic Steppe

Prologue (Panticapaeum, The Kingdom of the Bosporus, Spring
AD
263)

Part One: The Country of Strange Peoples (Lake Maeotis and the Tanais River, Spring
AD
263)

Part Two: The Wolves of the North (The Steppe, Spring–Autumn
AD
263)

Appendices

Historical Afterword

Glossary

List of Emperors in the Third Century
AD

List of Characters

By the same author

WARRIOR OF ROME:

Fire in the East

King of Kings

Lion of the Sun

The Caspian Gates

Ancient Warfare: A Very Short Introduction

To James Gill

The so-called Scythian desert is a grassy plain devoid of trees … Here live the Scythians who are called nomads because they do not live in houses but in wagons … They eat boiled meat and drink the milk of mares … As regards their physical peculiarities and the climate of their lands, the Scythian race is as far removed from the rest of mankind as can be imagined.

–Pseudo-Hippocrates,
Airs, Waters, Places
18–19 (tr. J. Chadwick and W. N. Mann)

(Panticapaeum, The Kingdom of the Bosporus, Spring AD263)

This god Death takes many shapes and puts at our disposal an infinite number of roads that lead to him.

–Lucian,
Toxaris
,
or Friendship
38.

The killer stood in the empty courtyard, sniffing the air, listening. The smell of charcoal, the distant sounds of metalworking; there was nothing untoward. The house, like all in the row, was long abandoned. Yet it had been worth checking; derelict buildings attracted drunks, vagrants, and – a grimace crossed the killer’s face – lovers with no place else to go.

The sun was shifting down towards the great West Gate, towards the double walls and ditch which repeatedly had failed to protect the city of Panticapaeum. In the opposite direction was the acropolis. There the thin spring sunshine caught the
Pharos
that no one dared light for fear of the ships it might draw, and the temple of Apollo Iatros, the home the archer-god had proved unwilling to defend. In front of these symbols of a threatened Hellenism spread the fire-blackened, much repaired palace of the King of the Bosporus. Rhescuporis V, Lover of Caesar, Lover of Rome, styled himself Great King, King of Kings, and much else. The surrounding barbarian nomads knew him as the Beggar King. The killer felt nothing but pleasure in the evidence that evil men brought evil on their own heads.

It would be easy now just to walk away. But night would soon fall. If the necessary actions were not taken, the killer knew only too well what the dark could bring. The self-appointed Hound of the Gods, the Scourge of Evil, walked back into the house.

The corpse lay on its back, naked in the rectangle of light shaped by the door. The killer went to a leather bag, and drew out a piece of string, a scalpel, a knife with a serrated blade and a big cleaver like those used in the meat markets. Hard experience had taught these terrible things were necessary.

The killer laid out the instruments in a neat line by the corpse, and considered them. Better to do the delicate work first. The other way around, and muscle fatigue might cause a nasty slip. There was no point in delaying. The horrible things had to be done. Even in this run-down area of the town, delay might bring discovery.

Taking up the scalpel and kneeling over the body, the killer made an incision the length of the left eyelid. The honed steel cut easily; blood and fluid seeped. The killer pushed the thumb of the hand not holding the blade into the wound, worked it around and down, and drew out the eyeball. It came free with a sucking sound. When the orb was well out of its socket, a neat stroke of the scalpel severed the optic nerve. Although there was a reasonable length of the bloody cord, it proved difficult to tie the string around the slippery, repulsive object.

The Hound of the Gods did not pause, but got straight on with the other eye. Night was approaching, and there was much to be done.

The killer removed both eyes and secured them to the string then exchanged the thin scalpel for the more robust knife with the serrations. The latter were a help. A human tongue was remarkably tough, and there was so much gristle to saw through with the nose, ears and penis. The heavy cleaver came into its own with the butchery of the hands and feet.

It was done, the extremities removed, tied to the string, packed under the armpits. The killer was tired, daubed in gore. Just one last thing. On hands and knees, head right down, the Hound of the Gods licked up some of the blood from the corpse, and spat it out. Three times, the iron taste of blood, disgusting in the mouth, and three times the retching expectoration.