The Wolves of the North

XVIII

The first Alani outriders were no time in appearing. They came splashing down the bed of the stream from the right, moving at a high-stepping trot. They must have climbed down the bank somewhere off to the east.

Ballista took a dozen or so arrows from his gorytus and pushed them point down into the soil at his feet. They would be easy to get at there. Some said the dirt poisoned the wound. Ballista did not care about that, he just needed them to hand. He leant the bowcase back against the tree. There were about forty arrows left in it. He selected one. Waiting, he ran his forefinger and thumb down the shaft to check it was straight and true, he felt the feathers, and finally he nocked it.

The noise of combat rolled across from the wagons.

Maximus was taking his time. Ballista was dry-mouthed with apprehension, but he admired the Hibernian’s control. So far, there were only six Alani riding in line. Let them get well into the killing ground. The foremost rider was bareheaded; a strip of scarlet cloth holding back his long brown hair. His upper body was encased in bright scale armour. He must be a nobleman. Those following were unarmoured, in patterned tunics and trousers. Ballista knew what was in Maximus’s mind.

An arrow hissed across from the left. It narrowly missed the head of the Alani noble. That fool of a Suanian, Ballista thought. All the Alani brought up their bows, scanning both banks for targets. The leader went to kick on. An arrow punched deep into the shoulder of his mount. The warhorse plunged, half unseating its rider. Ballista stepped out, drew and released. His arrow sank into the injured horse’s flank. It reared. The Alan went sprawling. As it landed, the warhorse sank to its knees.

Alani arrows were whipping through the branches. Ballista drew again. The rear horse he had intended as his target was already out of control, maddened by the pain of the arrowhead embedded in its neck. Maximus was doing well. Ballista calmly shot an Alan in the centre of their line out of the saddle.

With the riverbed ahead and behind partly blocked by dead or dying animals, the Alani realized their dreadful position. Almost as one, those still mounted set their horses at the far bank. An arrow from Tarchon took one in the shoulder. The Alan somehow clung on as his pony scrambled up the almost sheer incline. You could not fault their horsemanship. And you could not fault their courage. They were only intended to scout.

A flash of silver, like the belly of a fish. The Alani nobleman in the scale armour was out of the water, hauling himself up the opposite bank. An arrow from Ballista’s left missed him. One from the right did the same. Hand over hand, he scrabbled, the soil landsliding behind him. The other Alani, having forced their horses through the sharp bushes, had turned and were shooting to cover his escape.

Ballista stepped clear of the tree. As he closed one eye and drew, an Alani arrow screeched close past. Part of him noticed he had reverted to the normal European two-finger draw. Another incoming shaft snapped a twig a foot or two away. He released, and stepped back into cover. He heard the splash as the body fell back into the water, and the babble of angry foreign voices. At twenty paces, even metal armour offered little guarantee of protection.

When he had stilled his breathing, Ballista peeked out; the other side of the tree, low down and quick. No arrow thrummed at his face. As far as he could see, the Alani outriders had gone. The noise of the skirmishing along the line of the wagons at his back must have masked their hooves. Below, down in the water, were two dead horses and three dead men. Ballista had not noticed the third die.

For a little time he debated whether to climb down, and, like some Homeric hero, strip the Alani noble of his fancy scale armour. The Romans had a very special award for a general who defeated the enemy commander in single combat, the spolia opima. He thought better of it. He was neither an Achilles nor a Romulus. And the Alani would return in numbers at any moment.

‘You hungry?’ Maximus had jogged over. He tossed a bag of air-dried meat across to Ballista. Wherever they were, the Hibernian would produce the stuff. It was a good job Ballista liked it. He took a handful and threw the bag back.

Maximus nodded at the wagons. ‘Company.’ He walked off.

Ballista got a wine flask from the saddle of his horse. The animal was cropping the grass, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding drama. As Calgacus came up, Ballista embraced him and gave him a big kiss on top of his balding head.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ Calgacus said. ‘I am not a fucking Greek.’

Ballista punched Wulfstan’s arm, ruffled his hair and shook Hippothous by the hand. He was grinning with pleasure at their survival, with pleasure at still being alive himself.

‘Wonderful reinforcements,’ Maximus called over. ‘A child, an old cripple and a pederast secretary. Nothing can touch us now.’

‘Half-witted Hibernian shite.’ Calgacus’s mutter was, again, perfectly audible above the none-too-distant sounds of battle. ‘Brain in his prick.’ Calgacus, like the other newcomers, was armoured. He was carrying a heavy axe in his left hand. His right arm was still in splints.

Ballista wondered where Wulfstan had got his too-large mailcoat. It was a wonder the boy could stand, let alone move in it. He must be stronger than he looked.

‘Castricius is coming,’ Hippothous said. His voice echoed oddly from behind the ‘T’ opening of an antique Greek helmet he had acquired a year or two back in Ephesus, or Miletus. ‘He should be here in a moment.’

‘And so will the Alani.’ Ballista was still laughing. With an effort, he calmed himself down. ‘Hippothous, take a position between me and Tarchon. When Castricius comes, he can go between Maximus and me. Calgacus, go and watch Tarchon’s back. Wulfstan, stay here with me.’

‘Will they come again?’ Wulfstan asked.

‘Yes, but they have travelled a long way,’ Ballista said. ‘They and their horses are tired. If their next attack does not break through, they will draw off until tomorrow.’

No sooner had the others started moving off than Ballista could hear the thunder of approaching cavalry. It seemed to be approaching from both sides. He very much hoped he was right about the Alani.

The Alani did not make the mistake of approaching along the riverbed again. They must have forded the river up- and downstream. From both sides, a large band of riders swept around to link up on the Steppe to the north of the watercourse. They pulled up, a couple of hundred paces away, out of most effective bow range.

Castricius ran up. Ballista waved him over to where he wanted him to stand.

The Alani waited quietly behind two standards. One was an abstract design on cloth, a nomad tamga, the other a horsetail on a pole. In all, Ballista estimated about a hundred warriors. Maybe one in ten armoured. They seemed to be waiting for something; most likely a signal.

Ballista noted that there was no battle din from the wagons behind. Earlier, he had seen a big draco standard. The nomads were showing themselves disciplined enough to wait for the word of the chief who rode under the dragon. They would all attack at once. That was not good. Nor was the fact that down here by the river — good defensive position though it was — Ballista’s familia was outnumbered to the order of twenty to one.

The wind soughed through the lime trees, fretted at the thorn bushes. Out beyond the river, it raised little dust devils. They were the first Ballista had seen on the Steppe. The summer sun was drying the plains.

The nomad standards snapped in the breeze. Ballista wished he were standing under his own white draco; hearing its bronze jaws hiss and seeing its body writhe with menace. Ballista wished he were out there at the head of a confident troop of men, looking in, waiting to finish an outnumbered huddle of enemy. He pulled himself up. The Alani could finish the men in the wagon-laager, and do so quickly — if the nomads were well led, if they wanted it enough and, above all, if they were prepared to take the casualties. Ballista knew what he would have his men do if he were the Alani chief. They should ride up to the tree line, dismount, force their way through the scrub, some should provide covering shooting, the rest rush down the far bank, cross the stream, and storm the near bank. But Ballista also knew that, while they were doing it, his arrows would drop at least four or five of them; and then he would hope to take one or two with him in the final hand-to-hand struggle. Maximus, Hippothous, Castricius and Tarchon should do no worse than him. Wulfstan with his Herul bow and old Calgacus one-handed with his axe might take a few more. The Alani could kill them all, wipe them from the face of Middle Earth, but thirty or more of the nomads would not see the end of the day.

Thinking about the final moments, Ballista glanced over to where his hobbled horse grazed. A cowardly thought, the thought of a nithing, insinuated itself through his mind. No, he would not disgrace himself in his own eyes, or those of others, or those of the Allfather. When the last moments were close, he would get the boy Wulfstan on the horse. In the confusion, he might just have a chance to get clear. He could go north. Bearing the arms of Aluith, once Wulfstan told his story, the Heruli were likely to welcome him.

Ballista wondered what his own boys were doing, far away in Sicily. Would they ever hear of his death? He pushed down the self-pity. Allfather, if I fall, let your shield-maidens choose me for Valhalla; and then, and none too soon, many years from now, let them bring my sons to me there. Let us feast together through the long ages until the coming of the winter of winters, until the icy cold of Fimbulvetr brings on Ragnarok, and it is the end of all of us; gods and men.

The deep boom of a drum broke Ballista’s reverie, made Wulfstan next to him start. The beat was slow, deep, menacing.

‘The Persians do the same; it signifies nothing.’ Ballista made his voice sound dismissive. Wulfstan looked a little reassured.

Ballista stepped out from the cover of the lime and gazed out at the Alani host. The trees on the far bank did not altogether obscure his view. A warrior moved his horse out in front. A conical, gilded helmet on his head, silvered mail on his body, the nobleman shone like the sun. The Alan removed the helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Bareheaded, he raised his arms, presumably to address some high god or martial deity the Alani believed might bring them fortune in the grim work ahead.

‘Stay here.’ The decision was made on an instant. Bow and a couple of arrows in hand, Ballista brushed through the undergrowth. He slid on his arse down the bank. Holding the bow high, he splashed across the stream and launched himself up the far bank.

At the lip, he slowed, careful to rise up in the shelter of a tree. He could hear his familia calling — Come back; what the fuck are you doing? Ignoring them, he pushed through the bushes until he had a clear view.

He nocked, raised and drew in one motion. There was a warning shout from the ranks of the Alani. Ballista aimed, allowed for the wind from the north — a little higher and a shade to the left — and released.

Ballista knew he should run, but he had to watch. Two hundred paces — a very long shot indeed — the arrow seemed an age in flight. Alerted, the warrior in the gorgeous armour turned his head but did not desist from summoning the god of his people. The arrow took him in the thigh. The deity had rejected his importuning.

A roar of fury from the Alani. Ballista turned and ran. Fear and triumph added wings to his feet. He flew, like Hermes, down one bank, across the water, and up the other, behind the coming thunder of several hundred hooves, the yells of outrage, fury at the sacrilege.

Ballista ducked behind the tree. He doubled up, fighting air into his lungs. Wulfstan and the others were already shooting. The range was still long, shifting branches in the way. They would not hit many yet. But there were plenty of arrows. Let them carry on. It gave them something to do in the face of the charge, made them feel better.

‘Fuck me, have you annoyed them!’ Maximus shouted. He was laughing now. ‘You did not kill him, mind, just nailed his leg to his saddle.’

The Alani were whooping, shooting as they rode. Their arrows were falling thick, like winter snow. But the spreading lime trees gave cover overhead and, lower, the shrubs took some.

Ballista steadied his breathing, put an arrow on the string and leant out, looking for a target. The Alani were almost at the tree line. Off to the right, a pony bucked, an arrow in its foreleg. Ballista chose and shot. Without looking, he reached for another arrow, drew and shot again.

The nomads were driving their mounts through the thorny undergrowth. Scratched and bleeding, the ponies were jibbing and refusing. They were getting in each other’s way. Their very numbers were against them. The Roman arrows were adding to the confusion.

Ballista sent a shaft deep into the neck of a pony. It stood for a moment, then fell, as if sacrificed. Its rider jumped off its back. The pony behind ran into him, sending him spinning. The pony stumbled, its rider half up its neck. Ballista put an arrow in its haunch. It spun, kicking out. Its hooves caught another animal in the barrel. This leapt sideways, and went crashing — legs scrabbling — over the bank and down into the river.

All along the lip, among the sharp brambles, nomad ponies were barging into each other, tripping, falling, their riders powerless against the elemental confusion. Only a few animals had got down the bank on their own feet and with a rider still on their back. Ballista dedicated his arrows to these. Without the need of an order, so did the other bowmen of the familia. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. In the riverbed, the ponies made big, unprotected, almost stationary targets. Once one or two were hit, they thrashed around, hopelessly impeding the rest. A river running red was not merely a poetic fancy.

One of the Alani — surely a hero among his people — had negotiated all the disarray. Like a centaur, he and his mount breasted the Roman side of the bank. As hooves scrabbled over the top, and the rider was motionless against the sky, Ballista shot him in the chest. He toppled back. The pony ran on into the wagon-laager. It almost seemed a pity to snuff out such extravagant courage.

Another of the Alani reached up over the bank. This one was on foot. Ballista shot him. The arrow hit him in the left shoulder. He spun around. Then he straightened, drew his sword with his right hand, and came on. Ballista shot him in the stomach. He doubled up, left hand around the shaft. He was on his knees. Somehow, he forced himself up again, took another shaky step forward. He had not dropped his sword. Ballista shot him again. In the chest, this time. Finally, the warrior went down.

On the far side of the carnage, a horn sounded a clean note that cut through the sounds of exertion and pain. The Alani snagged among the undergrowth began to hack and fight their way out. The few alive in the river rushed back up their own bank. Dispassionately, Ballista shot a couple more in the back as they fled. They made no odds. In a fight like this, it was not about the number of attackers killed, but about their will to fight. In a sense, it was always like that.

Wulfstan was exhausted but, still, hours later, his excitement kept him going. He was a warrior. He had killed a man. And not just one man, but three, maybe four. He would never forget the sheer, untarnished pleasure of his first kill. The Alani pony had refused at the lip of the far bank. The nomad was kicking in his heels, urging it down towards the water. The steep, untrustworthy-looking slope, the smell of blood, the squealing of others of its kind in pain and distress, all combined to make the pony reluctant. The Alan was silhouetted. Wulfstan drew the bow. And something happened; something very strange. His hands were guided. It was as if he had done this before, many times before. It was as if Aluith were alive, guiding his hands. Wulfstan released. The arrow shot straight and true. There was never any doubt it would take the Alan full in the chest. The nomad fell, a look of indignant surprise on his face.

That Alan was just the first. The others were easier still. Wulfstan wielded Aluith’s bow as if he had the strength of a grown man, as if the bow had been made for him. Wulfstan was a warrior now. Killing a man was a greater deed than killing a boar or a bear. If he had belonged to the Taifali, all the unclean things he had submitted to would have been washed away in the blood of the men he had killed that afternoon. He was not of the Taifali. He was an Angle; maybe destined to become a Herul. But now he was a warrior, a man-killer. Now, he had the skills to exact his revenge, to wash himself clean in the blood of many, many men.

When the horn sounded, the Alani had pulled back from the river. Soon after, they had broken off their assault on the wagon line. It was mid-afternoon. They had asked for no truce to reclaim their dead but had ridden off in silence. They had established a main camp some three or four miles away to the south. Ballista had been right, both nomad man and beast had been tired from hard travel.

Yet not all the Alani — and there had to be around three hundred or more of them — had retired to their camp. A large troop — a hundred or so led by the noble with the tamga standard from earlier — camped out half a mile to the north. And while the Alani made no more all-out assaults in the rest of the day, small parties kept feinting attacks all along the perimeters. Sometimes, they carried fire pots with them, from which they would kindle flaming arrows. With the wagon-laager by a stream, there was little danger of serious conflagration. But it all added to the strain.

There was no rest between the feints. Under the joint direction of Andonnoballus and Ballista, the defenders were kept very busy. Every member of the caravan, even the slaves and staff found cowering in the bottom of the carts, even the old Gothic witch, was put to work. Ropes were dug out, and the wagons tied tight together. As an added precaution, each was staked down in place. Furs, skins and felt were stretched and tacked between wheels and across gaps to keep out arrows and hinder attackers. The whole assemblage was doused from the stream, and butts and cauldrons brimming with water were placed along the inside of the line. All the baggage was laboriously hauled out. Sacks, boxes and barrels were piled up to complete the barricade. Bales of delicate silks, diplomatic presents from the Roman emperor to the King of the Heruli, were piled with amphorae of pickled fish.

It was no more peaceful to the north, by the river. Ballista had them tie ropes from one lime tree to another. He then showed them how to construct a barrier of entwined thorn bushes, like the zereba the tribes of North Africa built. This zereba was reinforced with assorted belongings and ran along the front of the fighting position.

When released from improvising field fortifications, the defenders scurried about collecting undamaged arrows. Some might find an ironic pleasure in sending the Alani shafts back.

Darkness brought no relief. Bands of Alani continued every so often to canter up to the defences. There was a big moon, and few clouds. The nomads were perfectly visible, their shadows sliding across the Steppe like black souls escaped from Niflheim. Some again brought fire pots, lit flaming arrows and sent them arcing into wagons. The others who did not were the more frightening. Shot at a high trajectory, the swift black shafts fell nearly vertical inside the laager; hard to see at all, and almost impossible to judge where they would strike. Some of the Alani used special hollow arrowheads which whistled or screeched as they fell.

Those down by the river who could sleep despite the Alani still got little rest. Ballista had divided his command of six men into three watches. Only two were to stand down, while the other four remained on watch, and the rest period was just two hours. Wulfstan, with Castricius, had been the first off duty. The little Roman had pulled his cloak over him in the shelter of one of the lime trees and started snoring almost instantly. The continued work on the zereba did not disturb him in the slightest. Wulfstan, however, had been too excited to sleep. He had killed a man; his first man. Now, much later, some time after midnight, and with his next period of rest postponed, he wished he had had more self-control, wished he had at least shut his eyes.

Wulfstan was pleased he had not had to prepare food for everyone. Maximus had plucked and gutted the chicken he had acquired earlier and put it to boil in a pot suspended over the big campfire lit by the Heruli. Old Calgacus had scrounged or stolen various bits and pieces to add to the stew. With some dry, army-style biscuit and washed down with rough wine, it was not too bad. Once he had started eating, Wulfstan realized he was very hungry. He had even eaten the core of the apple he had been given. Calgacus had said they may as well eat most of their stores tonight, because by the end of tomorrow there would be fewer alive needing a share. Wulfstan had looked at the others and thought, You poor bastards, you poor, old bastards.

Ballista did not seem to rest at all. He disappeared back to the wagons for a time. Not long before midnight, he came back lugging two shovels and two big bundles of staves of wood. He roused his men out and quietly gave them his instructions. They were to tie dark scarves or cloths around their helmets, sword belts and scabbards. They were to smear mud on their armour and any exposed skin. Shield ornaments likewise were to be covered, if not prised off. Finally, if there were hobnails in their boots, they should muffle them with rags.

When the seven dark figures, reeking of river mud, were assembled, Ballista checked them over and then outlined what he intended. Three — Castricius, Calgacus and Tarchon — would remain behind the zereba. They should provide cover, if things went wrong. The other four were going to cross the river. Ballista himself, and Maximus, would work through to the edge of the scrub and keep watch on the Alani out on the plain to the north. Hippothous and Wulfstan were to take a shovel and a bundle of wood each. To make it as difficult as possible for the Alani in the morning, they were to dig shallow holes in the soft soil of the riverbank, plant the staves Ballista had sharpened point up in the bottom and cover the traps over with some brushwood. They would only be able to do a couple of short sections of the bank, but everything would help.

Crossing the stream, the four of them together, Wulfstan had not been unduly fearful. The bodies of the Alani caught in the reeds did not bother him, and the babbling of the water was somehow homely. Even the splashing of their passing did not make him think it would warn the Alani. Then Ballista had waved Maximus and Hippothous off to the left. Soon they had been lost in the undergrowth downstream. Ballista indicated where Wulfstan was to start digging. The big warrior then climbed the bank and, with no sound at all, was gone.

Wulfstan was alone. He had been alone for — he guessed from the stars — about an hour. To begin with, he had not minded too much. But now he was very tired, and the night and the isolation were growing oppressive. The scurry of small nocturnal animals no longer sounded reassuring. The play of shadows as clouds chased across the moon began to presage something dire. Every sound in the night, every plop as a rat or its like took to the water was enough to make him jump. When an owl called from one of the trees, he had to fight down an urge to run. His nerves were stretched, creaking like an over-drawn bow.

The scrunch as his spade bit into the moist soil was unfeasibly loud. The Alani were but a few hundred paces away; it must carry to them. He tugged aside a reluctant root with his bare hands. Allfather, he was tired.

Something splashed behind him, upriver off to his right. He forced himself to ignore it. Warriors — Angle or Herul — did not jump at the slightest sound. All these Steppe streams were full of fish — chub, gudgeon, pike — then there were all those mouse-like creatures: voles, marmots, all sorts of rodents.

Wulfstan bedded in another stake: tap-tap-tap. His hands were coated with dirt. It stung where the thorns had cut him. The wet riparian smell was strong in his nose. He reached for the spray of undergrowth he had already cut. The scratch of it was loud as he dragged it over the fresh-dug hole, arranged it just so.

Again, a splash behind him. This time, there was something more; a sucking sound — the sound of something moving through the water. Something, or someone, was moving downstream towards him.

Wulfstan flattened himself against the bank. He listened as hard as he could. Nothing, just the river. The hoot of a distant owl. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing made by man.

Wulfstan breathed out; almost a sob. His nerves were cracking like spring ice. He went to move. And there was the sound again. Closer now. Much closer now.

Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, hold your hands over me.

Wulfstan forced himself to look. A sombre, hooded figure maybe thirty paces away. A man was coming cautiously down the stream towards him.

If he moved, Wulfstan would be seen straightaway. If he did not, the man would stumble across him in no time. Wulfstan’s fingers dug into the earth. He began to pray.

In the milk-white light of the moon, the man came on. Twenty paces, less.

Nerthus, Earth Mother, do not desert your child.

An amorphous shadow detached itself from the bank behind the figure. With no sound, it entered the stream. Only faint ripples on the water’s silver surface betrayed its corporeality.

The hooded man came on. Silently, the shadow closed behind it. Steel glittered in the moonlight. An arm snaked around the hood. The steel flashed, cold and without pity, sawing across a pulled-back throat. Legs thrashed, churning the stream; impossibly loud after the silence.

The shadow lowered the dead man into the water, cleaned the blade on his clothes, pushed him aside into a clump of reeds. All was quiet again.

The shadow removed its muddied headgear. Its long hair shone white in the moon.

‘Come, time to go.’ Ballista held out a hand.

Wulfstan took it, let himself be helped down.

They both looked at the dead man.

Do not fear, and let no thought of death be upon you.

But come, tell me this thing and recite it to me accurately:

Where is it that you walk alone to the ships from the army

Through the darkness of night when other mortals are sleeping?

Wulfstan gazed up at Ballista, uncomprehending.

Ballista smiled. ‘An old Greek poem. Come, time to go.’