The Wolves of the North by Harry Sidebottom

will be out on the Steppe,’ remarked Castricius. ‘Winter is near continuous all year round. The north winds are charged with bitter rain, chilled with ice and snow.’
    ‘Mules and asses die in the cold, and cattle lose their horns,’Mastabates joined in. ‘Only animals small enough to live underground can survive.’
    ‘And summer lasts but a few days. Even then there is mist. On the few occasions the sun does appear, it has little warmth,’ Castricius said.
    ‘That is not what Strabo says,’ Hippothous put in. He seemed to be attempting to outdo the interpreter in pedantry. ‘According to the geographer, the summer heat is too severe for those unaccustomed to it. Anyway, as a man of culture, I look forward to seeing strange and wonderful creatures – the tarandos, which changes its colour, and the colos, which runs swifter than a deer. It drinks through its nostrils and stores water in its head.’
    ‘Fat and smelly? Well, I do not really care, as long as they are willing,’ Maximus mused. ‘Actually, even if they are not all that at first …’
    A violent gust of wind ripped across the river, bringing the first of the rain. It was not yet heavy, but squalls flurried across the ground where the camp had stood, around the wagons. The beasts stood in what shelter they could find, heads down.
    ‘Enough of this. Everyone on their feet,’ Ballista announced. ‘Help get your things into your wagons.’ The company scattered, heads cocked into their shoulders against the rain.
    Ballista walked over to where the auxiliaries were sheltering in and around the wagons with the gold. ‘Where is your centurion?’ Hordeonius stuck his head out from under the felt canopy, half sketched a salute. ‘Leave half your men on guard, and send the others to load the wagons,’ Ballista ordered.
    ‘But …’
    ‘Yes, Centurion?’ Ballista’s voice was icily polite.
    ‘Nothing – we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The centurion set about rousting out his men with needless harshness, a swing of his staff here, a kick there.
    Ballista stamped through the weather to the wagon where the
haruspex
and the staff were. He climbed up on to the tailgate and stuck his head through the hanging. Pale, sullen faces gazed at him from the gloom. ‘Everybody is to help load the wagons.’ The others looked to the
haruspex
. After an insolent pause, the latter nodded. Ballista got down. Led by the priest, the occupants clambered from the wagon and went off unhappily.
    Ballista stood, the still centre of squelching activity. The rain ran down his face. His long hair was wet on his shoulders. He felt eyes on him. The
gudja
was standing on the driving box of his wagon. In his rain-slick sable cloak, he looked like a ragged carrion crow. The
gudja
smiled, obviously enjoying the disquiet among the Romans.
    The first day’s travel was not good. There were only a few curtailed hours of daylight left when the wagon train finally moved out. Curtains of rain swept in from the north. Water sluiced off the felt canopies, darkened the hides of the oxen. The horses on their long leads plodded after, heads and tails down. Occasionally, one snickered its displeasure. The unsprung wagons jolted along at a snail’s pace. The noise was deafening. As the inexperienced occupants had not properly secured the coverings, they leaked. The Sarmatian drivers out in the elements, caps pulled down to meet their cloaks, only their eyes and noses showing, seemed impervious. Everyone else, huddled and jarred in the body of the carts, was thoroughly miserable.
    When it became fully dark, they made camp. It was a protracted, chaotic affair. The fires did not want to light. Some of the provisions had got wet. Their patience worn thin, men cursed, cuffed the slaves. They had not travelled above three miles – four at most.
    The next morning, things were much improved. Hippothous had slept well. He and his slave, Narcissus, had been