The Wolves of the North (35 page)

The Alani were about four bow shots from the main line of Naulobates’ force. Their disposition mirrored that of the Heruli: three units backed by a reserve. Ballista could just discern the small, indistinct shapes of their leaders riding about in front, but the groups of warriors were nothing but motionless dark blocks on the tawny Steppe.

As a professional, Ballista ran his eye over the whole. Naulobates
had done well enough. The Herul had expected to be outnumbered. He had anchored one wing on the tree line by the riverbank and kept back a reserve to deal with any outflanking; either across the river or, more probably, around the other wing on the open Steppe. Gathering all the remounts behind the reserve might trick the Alani into thinking they were additional troops. Yet the plan was essentially defensive, containing no bold moves. There was nothing unexpected to unsettle or panic the enemy. It relied entirely on the fighting qualities of the warriors.

Ballista studied the enemy. At this distance, it was impossible to judge numbers accurately. Yet there did not appear to be more Alani on the field than Heruli. Of course, enemy numbers were often overestimated. Safrax might have left a force to screen the advance of the Urugundi, or he may have left a sizable body of warriors guarding their flocks. Yet it could be something else. At the battle of the Caspian Gates the previous year, Safrax had detached a force to lie in ambush. Naulobates had issued strict orders against any of his men leaving the line today. If they obeyed, any concealed Alani should not pose a problem. But there remained the danger that Safrax had sent some of his warriors on a wide flank march, sweeping out of sight around the Heruli.

If the Heruli were defeated, most of the broken men would stream away to the north and north-east, running back to their herds or settlements. Ballista looked down to the river in the west. From the previous night, he thought he could get his horse to swim the Tanais, even if he were still wearing armour. All those with him were good horsemen, except Tarchon. They could help the Suanian across then ride hard for Lake Maeotis. It would mean leaving the members of the mission still in Naulobates’ camp to their fate. Yet, as far as he knew, the Herul had no reason not to release the eunuch Amantius, three members of staff, two freedmen and a couple of slaves. One thing was certain, Ballista himself
had no intention of falling into the hands of the Alani king he had defeated, or Safrax’s dependant, Saurmag, the prince whom he had driven out of Suania.

Movement caught Ballista’s eye from the Alani. In the raking light, elongated shadows were flitting about in front of their line. The dark blocks of warriors appeared to shift and sway. The wind from the north swept the sounds away. There was something eerie about alien pre-battle rituals which were too far away to be made out with any clarity, and which seemed to be conducted in complete silence.

Naulobates called the high-ranking Heruli on the hillock around him. Among them were Andonnoballus and Pharas. Together they trotted forward down the incline. The First-Brother would ride the lines, calling out the things he considered would put heart into his men.

Ballista and the other diplomatic visitors stayed where they were on the low hill. Ballista noticed that several in his party were looking uncertainly at the triad of chiefs from the distant north. Indeed, all three struck one as oddly unremarkable for a cannibal.

A high, uncanny howling came from the left of the Heruli battle line. It mixed with the wind fretting through the standards. Some of the Nervii had dismounted. They were throwing off their clothes and dancing, bare steel flashing in their hands. They danced wildly, drawing down from the high god the power of his favoured predator, the grey wolf. Soon they would be slathering, bestial, ready to rend and tear. It put Ballista in mind of home. As a young man he had watched his father dance as one of the Allfather’s wolf warriors before the shieldwall of the Angles.

All along the line the tribes followed their own practices; the blue-dyed and tattooed Agathyrsi, the red Heruli, the Eutes, Rogas, Goltescythae and the others. Ballista knew as well as anyone that men need all the help they can get to stand close to the steel. He
pulled the dagger on his right hip an inch or so from its sheath, and commenced his own private ritual.

He watched Naulobates and his men turn to come back. He could hear the enemy war drums now. The Alani were moving forward, like the shadows of clouds, as if the surface of the Steppe itself had started to shift.

Andonnoballus reined in next to Ballista. ‘If the reserve fight, you should fight. I would have you back in favour with my … with the First-Brother.’

‘I do not see we have a choice,’ Ballista said.

He could see individual Alani: the barrels of their ponies, the riders themselves a smudge, the animals’ legs flickering through the dust.

Naulobates raised himself on the pommel of his saddle, looked this way and that, weighing things up. Satisfied, he drew his sword and flourished it above his head. The deep war drum of the Heruli beat. The standard with the three wolves and the arrow dipped to the fore. In front, hundreds of banners nodded in acknowledgement. The
yip-yip-yip
of the red warriors rose from the ranks. The three divisions of the front line walked forward, moved into a slow canter.

The Alani were closing fast. Padded and muffled, the riders looked top heavy on the little nomad ponies. Guiding with their legs, they drew their bows.

The air filled with the arrows of both sides. Thirty thousand horse archers were shooting as fast as possible. The shafts fell across the Steppe like squalls of rain. Men and horses went down.

Just when Ballista thought to see and hear the shock of collision, the front ranks of both sides wheeled and raced back, shooting all the time over the quarters of their ponies. The second did the same, then those following. A deadly gap of forty or fifty paces
was established. Warriors rode up shooting, spun their mounts, rode away still shooting and turned back again. Advance–retreat, advance–retreat; it had the skill of some long-practised, deadly ritual or dance.

It was not long before the dust largely obscured the scene. All Ballista could see was the rear of the Heruli formations, where warriors swung around to re-enter the fray, the many, many standards jerking and swaying above the melee, and the gusts of flighting arrows.

While the warriors twisted and jinked, the fight was stationary. Ballista dropped to the ground to take the weight from his horse’s back. It might need all its stamina later. He wished he had his own charger with him. But Pale Horse was many hundreds of miles away, safe on a friend’s estate outside Ephesus.

The Sarmatian would have to do. He stood by the head of the big bay. He stroked its soft, whiskery nose. He talked gently to it, making it listen to him, not to the sounds of its own species screaming in pain and fear.

The others dismounted. Maximus passed Ballista some air-dried meat and a flask. They ate and drank without talking to each other, watching the roiling cloud where men were dying. The north wind was getting up. It tugged at their hair, buffeted their shields.

‘Look, Aruth’s men,’ someone shouted.

The melee on the right was moving. Almost imperceptibly at first, then quicker; the fight there was ebbing south along the line of the trees.

‘Sound the recall,’ Naulobates ordered.

The war drum beat a different, insistent rhythm.

It went unheeded. A gap was opening between Aruth’s division and that of Uligagus to its left.

Naulobates shouted another command, and a messenger galloped down to the river.

It was too late. The Alani were fleeing, and Aruth’s men were chasing.

Ballista saw the Alani reserve moving forward. It was well placed either to take Aruth’s disordered men in their left flank or storm through the gap they had vacated between the river and Uligagus’s division.

Naulobates did not rant and rave. Calmly, he addressed Andonnoballus. ‘Take two thousand of the reserve and fill the line where Aruth’s men were stationed.’

Andonnoballus trotted down the slope to put himself at the head of his men.

Naulobates turned to Ballista. ‘You should go with him. Brachus has shown me that your daemon and that of Andonnoballus are blood-brothers in the spirit world. You should fight together in Middle Earth as you do in the
menog
.’

Ballista got back into the saddle. There was no arguing with Naulobates when his incorporeal twin brought him instructions from the beyond. After checking his girths, and checking the others were with him, Ballista cantered down to catch up with Andonnoballus.

Andonnoballus manoeuvred his troop into place with alacrity. Once there, sitting quietly with bows resting on their thighs, they saw the trap sprung.

Aruth obviously was no fool. He had seen the Alani reserve moving up to outflank him or cut him off. With much waving of flags and blowing of horns, Aruth had managed to bring the majority of his command to a halt, some three hundred paces out. The Eutes jostled, men and ponies out of breath, but ready to obey further commands. Those inexperienced in warfare on the plains and the overexcited had careered on after the routed Alani, oblivious to the recall. Things would go badly for those farmers from the Rha river and the motley followers of bandit leaders. But Aruth
had plenty of time to lead the Eutes back to the lines before the Alani reserve reached him.

The first sign was movement among the trees which edged the Tanais to the right. Mounted warriors, banded by sunlight, moving up under the willows and ash trees from where they had hidden down by the water. As they cleared the tree line, many standards were lifted. There were many warriors, several thousand, stretching from well beyond Aruth almost back to Andonnoballus.

‘Poor Aruth,’ Andonnoballus said.

‘Either he was stupid and led the charge, or he was weak and let it happen,’ Ballista commented.

‘It may be better for him to die,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘I do not know what my father would do to him.’

‘Aruth has led many men to their death,’ Ballista responded.

‘Pharas and Datius are with him.’ Andonnoballus’s tone was resigned, as if his companions were already dead. There was no possibility of him flouting his father’s orders and leaving the line in a rescue attempt.

The warriors with Aruth were rushing back towards a safety they would not attain. The ambushers swept out, closing around the disorganized Eutes tribesmen. Among the Alani standards, one of the nearer caught Ballista’s attention. A broad banner depicting a man on a mountain, it stood out from the nomad horse tails, animal skulls and
tamgas
. Prometheus chained on the peaks of the Croucasis; one of the symbols of the royal house of Suania. Only one man in the horde of Safrax would fly such a banner.

‘Andonnoballus, lend me two hundred of your warriors.’

The young Herul looked with surprise at Ballista. ‘My father commanded that no one should leave the line.’

‘I am not under your father’s orders.’

‘You would risk your life to rescue strangers?’

Ballista shrugged. ‘There must be three or four thousand men trapped out there.’

‘Sarus, Amius; your hundreds are to follow Ballista.’ Andonnoballus looked at Ballista. ‘Take great care.’

‘I intend a distraction, no more.’

Ballista paced his horse out of the line and turned to address the men, Roman and Heruli, who would follow him. ‘We will ride towards the fighting, shoot off a few arrows, then veer off to the right, down to the Tanais. One of the enemy leaders has an animosity towards me. He may be tempted to follow us. If so, it might open a gap through which Aruth and some of his men can escape.’

His audience regarded him stolidly.

‘Remember, we are there to cause a diversion. We want some of them to chase us. We do not want to fight them. Shout my name, get their attention, then we make our way back through the trees and the shallows of the river.’

Ballista realized he had spoken in the language of Germania. He repeated his instructions in Latin. Still in that language, he shouted the traditional cry, ‘Are you ready for war?’

‘Ready!’

Three times the call and response rang out. The sound of the eight riders from the
imperium
was small but brave against the din of battle. The Heruli looked on calmly.

Ballista laced up his helmet, checked the small buckler strapped to his left forearm, pulled his bow from its
gorytus
and selected an arrow. With the pressure of his thighs, he got his horse moving. On his right rode Maximus and Hippothous, to his left Tarchon and Castricius. Old Calgacus and the three auxiliaries were tucked in behind. The Heruli, two deep, fanned out on either side.

As he moved them to a fast canter, Ballista took in what he could see of the whole battle. The melee where Uligagus fought was passing behind their left flank. Presumably, Artemidorus’s men
were still engaged somewhere in the dust beyond that. The Alani reserve was still quite a way off ahead. Right in front, the Alani ambushers surged around the dwindling band with Aruth. He aimed for the Suanian royal banner.

‘Ball-is-ta! Ball-is-ta!’ The shout mingled with the rattle of hooves on the hard Steppe. He wished he had his own white
draco
standard. That would have guaranteed the attention of the man he sought.

They were closing fast. Two hundred paces; less. The enemy had seen them. Some were hauling around the heads of their ponies, ready to meet this new threat. Only a couple of hundred of us – they must think we are mad, Ballista thought.

‘Ball-is-ta! Ball-is-ta!’

One hundred and fifty paces. He drew his bow, saw those around him do the same. One hundred paces. He released, took another arrow, drew and released. It did not really matter where they fell.

Seventy paces, fifty. Arrows flew in both directions. All around him was the dreadful
thrum-thrum-thrum
of the incoming shafts, the dull, wooden thuds of them hitting shields, the grunting exhalations when one struck a man.

Ballista steered his mount off to the right. A horse behind him crashed to the floor. The others swerved around it, surged after him. He pushed the bay into a flat-out gallop towards the trees.