Votan and Other Novels (FANTASY MASTERWORKS) (3 page)

That’s how we got Ursa. She was a Thuringian who had been carried off by a party of scavenging Marcomen, a big hearty lass, blonde and blue eyed. Don’t you believe it when they tell you all Germans have yellow hair. A lot of them have, enough to impress you, but most of them are more mousy. As for red hair, that Tacitus talks about, that’s rare too, except among the Picts. Fair skin, though, mostly, and nobody quite as black-haired or black-eyed as we see here in the south.

When we got Ursa, she was none too worried about what had happened. Being hauled off to Vindabonum and sold for rough work in the kitchen was, for her, an entry into the great world. She didn’t stay in the kitchen long. I was nineteen at the time, and very much at a loss, and there wasn’t anything much she could do about it, even if she had objected. In fact, she seemed really pleased at my picking her up, and somehow the other Germans in the household always treated her as something special. And that’s how I learned German.

Once I began to get fluent in German, Vindabonum, too, began to wake up. Hardly any of the locals spoke Greek. A lot of them could be understood in a rather horrid kind of Latin, but mostly it was German or nothing. Once I could get along in
German it was different. It was another world, their world. It was a world of small shops and taverns, open markets and bustling people. Savages at bottom, of course, like their cousins across the Danube, noisy and uncontrollable.

I was nineteen, I told you, and there wasn’t much of what you might call entertainment. There was a kind of theatre where they had regimental sports twice a year, second-rate gladiators and beasts nobody would risk on a more sophisticated audience. There was a tale locally about a party of actors who had come with some Sophocles, but nobody turned up, and they were last seen walking back to Aquileia, having sold all their costumes to pay their debts, and lucky nobody sold them too.

So the only things to watch were the religious ceremonies, not that there were very many of them either. There were the usual official shrines and the troops had a Mithraeum, but that was private, of course. No use trying to see that unless you’re willing to take on more obligations than anyone would in their right minds. I wonder how long it takes to get the bull’s blood out of your hair. The Jews were just as private; there were two kinds, the orthodox ones, and the ones who eat anything and worship an ass’s head.

There was more fun where the Germans lived, outside the walls, in nasty little slums along the river and the roads. They weren’t anything like as bad as the German villages I’ve seen since, but they shocked me then. They were alive, though, with their little clusters of square thatched houses, and their cooking fires outside and naked children in the dust. If it rained, of course, it was a different matter, and when it snowed it turned quite nasty, especially inside with everyone huddled around the open fires, or braziers if your house doubled as a tavern. But most of the summer and autumn we could sit on the benches outside those taverns, drinking the local brews of barley or rye or plum, and looking at the way these people lived, not lived, camped really, not living in any settled way, squatting under the ramparts.

What did they live on? Well some of them had bits of land out on the edge of the woods, and a lot lived by heavy labour, hauling barges up the Danube or building in the barracks. A lot of them were craftsmen, heavy workers like smiths or potters.
It’s always a sign of civilisation when you find men doing the potting. The men who worked the wagons up from Aquileia, with all that lovely red Samian, couldn’t afford to buy it and they used the local rather gritty ware.

Most of these people had relations across the river on the Marcfield, as they called it, or even farther north. On feast days we would go to one of the riverside taverns, Rudi’s usually, and watch them coming across on the ferry. There were peasants in their best clothes come to see the great city, and a very great city that filthy Vindabonum must have seemed to them. They only saw the native quarter, of course; we never let them within the gates.

There were mothers and fathers up to see their recruit sons in the cavalry barracks, because by that time nobody was very choosy who you recruited for an auxiliary regiment, and they brought in pies and sausages. Sweethearts too, sometimes, but not many of those, because half of the recruits were running from some girl they’d got into trouble, and the other half were eager to see if it felt any different to get a southern girl into the same state.

There were pedlars with leather and carved wood, and cheap silver ornaments beaten out of silver coins, and men with Amber, and there were Holy Men. We usually had a line of legionaries across the quay, picking out at random perhaps one traveller in five or six and making him turn out his bundle for concealed weapons. The people didn’t seem to mind this, and we never saw anybody caught with anything, although often enough the odd pie or apple changed hands. It made the job worth while, and was one of the reasons why duty on the river was popular even after ten years of peace. But nobody ever filched a piece of Amber, it wouldn’t have been worth it, too much scandal. And nobody ever searched a Holy Man.

You’ve probably read about the German’s religion in authors like Tacitus. But none of these men ever went across the frontier. None of them ever spoke to more than one or two Germans, and those were Latin-speaking civilised ones, and being properly brought up and full of Homer, they tried to make some sense out of what they heard. The fact of the matter is that there’s no sense
in it at all. No two Germans will agree on who their Gods are. Mostly they have two. One is called Tiwaz, and he is a fine-weather Wind God, and the other is called Wude, and he is a bad-weather Sky God, and you hear him riding overhead with all his dogs howling in any storm. In the north, they also have a kind of Vulcan, a Smith God, who must be very comforting in the winters they have there. And there are a lot of minor Gods for streams and trees and suchlike, but nobody agrees about them at all.

They haven’t any real temples; they make offerings at rocks and trees where there has been an epiphany of a God. And they haven’t any priests, only these Holy Men. Being a Holy Man might happen to anyone. It starts with an epiphany of the God, a waking one like being struck by lightning, or in a dream. And the God lays a charge on you, and out you are driven to fulfil it. These Holy Men, of course, happen in a lot of lands where the people aren’t really settled on the soil or haven’t enough to eat. The Jews had them, and some of them wrote down the charges the God put on them. I’ve seen the Celtic ones, and they are very given to being holier than anyone else, and talk a lot about it. India is full of them. In Germany they are rare.

There are some Holy Men who eat no flesh, and some who live on nothing but fresh blood. There are some who may not touch women, and some who are, conveniently, driven by the God to sow their seed where they can. There are some who wash and some who don’t wash. The one I am going to talk about didn’t wash.

We were sitting outside Rudi’s Tavern one day, the last fine day of autumn. There was Aristarchos, prefect of a cavalry cohort, and Meno, from the Legion Headquarters, who was drowned in the Danube the following year. There was a lawyer called Polycleites, who didn’t tell anyone why he had come up there on the edge of nowhere, though my father knew. We were, in fact, a little Greek club, all speaking Greek, and we were drinking beer
and eating hot sausage; sometimes I think I lived on hot sausage in those days.

This Holy Man was worth looking at. He was well over six feet, and he had matted greasy yellow hair down to his waist. He had clothes on, and not all of them bother: a leather breech clout, and a scarlet cloak down to the hips in the German fashion, and that was new and clean.

He walked past the troops as if he didn’t see them and they were glad to let him alone; some of these gentry have uncertain tempers. He came to the top of the bank, and he very carefully turned till he was looking straight into the eye of the sun. Then he put up his bare arm, and plucked something large and shining out of the empty air. That’s not too difficult if you’ve been trained to it, as I have. It was too far off to see what. Then, whatever it was, he threw it straight at the sun. We followed its course in the air. Whether it was the wind or some God that held it I do not know, but I swear it changed its course, and it fell, quite gently, on to our table. It didn’t even spill anyone’s beer. We looked at it. It didn’t roll. It was a great piece of Amber, twice the size of your two clenched fists. A king’s ransom.

‘Generous, isn’t he?’ said Aristarchos. ‘Oh, no, he’s coming for it. You can smell him from here.’

You could too. Over he came, and he sat down at the table, pushing in between the two soldiers and opposite me. I felt a bit of a devil, so as he sat down I made a few of the right passes and vanished the Amber, on to my lap under the table.

‘Careful,’ said Aristarchos. ‘You’ll be turned into a toad in another minute.’

However, the Holy Man didn’t seem surprised. He just sat. There was no harm in being polite.

‘Beer, Holy Sir,’ I offered.

‘Tiwaz has laid it on me. I drink no strong drink.’ He had a strong northern accent. One of the tavern servants brought a jug of water, and filled him a beaker.

He’d drawn it half an hour before out of the river. Never drink water unless you’ve seen it drawn; usually then you don’t want to any more. The Holy Man must have had a stomach made of pottery; the water was darker than the beer.

He looked at the knives on the table. He leaned across and picked up Polycleites’s knife. Polycleites opened his mouth and the other three of us all kicked him under the table. The Holy Man said, in German, ‘Iron, iron, iron,’ three times, just like that. He spun the knife on the table. When it stopped, the handle pointed to him, the point to me. He did the same thing with Aristarchos’s knife, then with Meno’s. Each time, the point of the knife looked straight at me. Last, he took my knife. He spun it. This time, the point came to him, the hilt to me. He drank again.

He looked at me. His blue eyes bored into my black. After a while he looked away. He looked at my hair. At that time, it was still possible that I might follow my father in the Temple, and my hair and beard had been uncut since birth. My hair was long as his, black and clean against his dirty yellow.

He asked, ‘What is your name, Roman?’

I didn’t feel like arguing about Romans and Greeks, they all looked alike to him, anyway. I said,

‘I am Photinus.’

‘Photan, Votan, Woden, Odin,’ he repeated, trying out all the variants which the Germans used. Germans can’t learn to speak Greek, their tongues are too short, and they had great difficulty with the initial
Ph
of my name, turning it sometimes into a digamma, sometimes into a double
u
and sometimes a single
u
, sometimes dropping it altogether.

‘And what is your name, Holy Sir?’

‘I have no name.’

‘How do men call you, then?’

‘I have no name. Men call me Joy.’

He stood up. He had the Amber in his hand. I had not seen or felt him take it back. It worried me. I stood up with him. I did not want to, I just felt I would. Always, in the north, whatever I did, even when I must have been obeying the command of a God, I felt I was doing what I wished.

He went back to the quay. He stood where he had stood before, this time most carefully placing his back to the sun, so that his shadow fell straight before him. Again he flung the Amber straight up into the air, straight above his head, and the sun caught it and it shone so that we could all mark it and see it
curve down into the waters of the Danube. There were a dozen legionaries who spent the next week, all day and every day, diving for it, but they never found it.

There were a lot of people watching, mostly German. Joy turned away from the river. I had been expecting him to go back across the ferry, but no, he walked away, across the German quarter. I followed him. I had to. We came to a place by the Carnuntum road where there was an oak tree in an open space.

When he stopped there were about thirty or forty Germans with us. Two had spades. Without a word they began to dig. They dug a grave, seven feet long and two feet wide. When it was about four feet deep, others came and spread a layer of brushwood and twigs in the bottom. There was a great heap of brushwood too that they left by the graveside.

Joy turned to me and said in quite beautiful Greek, with no trace of an accent:

‘I go to my Hesperides. I go to renew my youth.’

Another German came forward with a long rope. Joy tied a noose in it and placed it round his own neck. It struck me that there was something wrong. Joy’s vows were to Tiwaz. But hanging was how you sacrificed to Wude, the Wind God; you hanged the victim from a branch, wind about him, wind beneath him, the wind squeezed from his body.

Joy climbed into the tree. He sat astride a branch about ten feet up. He looked about him, and then threw me the end of the rope.

‘Hold!’ he said.

I passed the end of the rope around my body and braced myself. I felt the jerk as he jumped. The strain lasted a moment. Then a knife flashed and someone cut the rope. I turned to see. A dozen Germans held Joy’s rigid body. The face was swollen, the tongue protruded.

I touched him. Born in Apollo’s house, I knew where to touch him. In the temple, in the throat, there was the pulse of a day-old chick.

They laid him in the grave. Over him they heaped more brushwood. They covered all with a few inches of earth. We all went away.

Each day I went back at noon to the oak tree. The grave was untouched, the earth drying on the brushwood. On the ninth day the grave was open. In it was a layer of ash and charred twigs. There was no body alive or dead, burnt or unburnt. Where Joy was I did not know.

None of my friends ever mentioned again that struggle in the tavern. None of the Germans under the tree, many of them men I knew, ever mentioned it again. Otho never spoke of it at all. But he knew.