The Wolves of the North

XXVI

The Steppe was dry by late July, the grass yellowing and beginning to wither. The passage of nearly twenty thousand men and over forty thousand horses could not be hidden or disguised. The dust rose up around them like thick smoke, as if one of the great cities of the imperium, Ephesus or Antioch, was burning. The wind arched it high across the southern sky. There was no way the Alani could fail to know they were coming. Even if the gods struck blind every spy and scout they possessed, the noise of the army carried several miles downwind, and a man with any fieldcraft could put his ear to the ground and feel the reverberations further away still.

The army of the Heruli and their allies was spread over miles of grassland. They rode in four units: a vanguard under Uligagus and three parallel columns under Aruth, Artemidorus and Naulobates himself. All the Heruli and the Agathyrsi had a couple of spare ponies. Some of the Nervii and Eutes also had remounts, but very few of the warriors from the sedentary tribes along the Rha river and none of the bandits were so well equipped.

The strategy of the horde, lengthily and furiously argued over in the assembly, in the result could not be simpler. They would ride south-west to the Tanais, follow the river when it bent to the west and, at about the point the Roman embassy had disembarked, join with the levies of Hisarna, King of the Urugundi. The united force would march south to the Hypanis river and on to the Croucasis mountains. As they went, they would spread out and round up the herds of the Alani and burn their tents. Somewhere between the Tanais and the Croucasis, the Alani must turn and fight.

Ballista and his familia rode behind Naulobates. It had not been an invitation that countenanced refusal. Ballista had tied a silk scarf around his face. The dust still clogged his mouth and nostrils, gritted his eyes. Riding in his mailshirt, the sweat coursed down his body. The straps and weight of his armour chafed. The heat, dust and discomfort did not lighten his mood. He had no wish to be here.

Once Hisarna had appeared at the ceremony of the sitting on the hide, it was obvious the Roman mission had failed. A few days later, when granted an audience, Ballista had requested Naulobates’ permission to return to the imperium. For a time the First-Brother had regarded him with those unnerving grey eyes, before saying he was disappointed Ballista had not put his right boot on the hide. Nevertheless, Naulobates considered the Romans should remain to witness the war which had been caused by their presence. Besides, Naulobates had added enigmatically, at some point he wished to discuss with Ballista the old days, the days of their grandfathers. The prospect of discussing Starkad with any Herul, let alone Naulobates, was not encouraging.

Ballista very much wished not to have any part of this expedition. The whole thing seemed ill-conceived. The Alani would know Naulobates and Hisarna were coming. The majority of the Urugundi warriors would be on foot. When the Heruli joined with them, the combined army would move slowly. If he were Safrax, the King of the Alani, he would move his herds up into inaccessible glens in the Croucasis, and block or set ambushes in the passes through the foothills that led to them. The latter should not demand many men, leaving the majority of the Alani cavalry free to harass the invaders or, more boldly, to counter-strike at their dependants. And, of course, there were said to be some thirty thousand Alani warriors. If they could catch either the Heruli or the Urugundi before they met on the lower Tanais, the Alani would outnumber them by at least three to two.

On the fourth evening, they made camp with the Tanais on their right. At this point, the river still ran south. It was broad here, riffling over wide bars of sand and shingle. After they had seen to the horses and eaten, there was little to do. There was no baggage train to worry about. All the horde, even the First-Brother, did without tents and slept on the ground. Drunkenness, gambling and fighting among the horde were banned on pain of death. Given the well-known inventiveness of Naulobates with capital punishment, the prohibitions had proved highly effective — only about a dozen men so far had had to be staked out, disembowelled or otherwise killed.

As the heat drained out of the day, Ballista went down through the wide band of trees to the river to swim. Maximus and Calgacus did not stir, but Tarchon insisted on accompanying him. Remember the boy Wulfstan, the Suanian said. Ballista would rather have been alone, but did not argue. Sometimes Tarchon respected the desire for silence.

Skeins of geese and ducks were over the river. The water held that strange luminescence which rivers can keep after the sun has gone down. Ballista stripped off his mail and clothes and walked naked into the river. He waded out, relishing the chill, clean bite of it on his skin. When it was deep enough, he swam a few strokes. He dived under the surface and came up blowing and wringing the water out of his long hair. After a time, he climbed out and dried himself with a towel Tarchon had brought. He got dressed, but could not be bothered to put his war shirt back on.

They sat side by side in silence. Ballista savoured the smell of the water and the vegetation, and listened to the wildfowl. Their sounds often reminded him of his youth. He thought of his father and mother. What an age they must be now. They had seemed old when he left, but in reality his mother could only have been about the age he was now, perhaps younger. Would he ever return and see them? He thought, far less fondly, of one of his half-brothers. Morcar would not welcome his return. For the first time in months, possibly years, he thought of a girl called Kadlin.

It was good here down by the river. By this time of year out on the Steppe at night the nightingales no longer sang, and the quails and corncrakes no longer called. If you were away from the noise of a horde of men and beasts, there was nothing but the ceaseless sighing of the wind. It was as if the sun had burnt the joy, if not the life, out of the plains. Ballista very much wanted to get away from the sea of grass.

Ballista fiddled with the straps of his mail. In the old days, if there had been even an outside chance of a threat, he would have put it straight back on. Years before, a centurion had told him — it was back in Novae on the Danube, when the Goths were outside the walls — that almost all soldiers became fatalistic, if they lived long enough. At first it was a good thing; they could look beyond preserving their own hides. But then they stopped taking basic precautions; became a danger to themselves and others. The centurion had claimed there were two ways of thinking behind it. Having run repeated dangers, some soldiers thought their luck had run out, there was no point in caring, because they were as good as dead, no matter what. Others fell under the delusion that nothing could touch them, certainly not kill them.

Ballista had no intimations of immortality. Equally, he saw no reason he should die here, rather than in any of the other bad places in which circumstances had placed him. He thought of his sons, the two best reasons to fight his way back. And he had Maximus and Calgacus with him. He loved the two men and knew it to be reciprocated. There was no reason the three of them would not get out of this, as they had of so much else.

When they did get out, perhaps he might be allowed to retire to his estate in Sicily. The mission had failed — far from attacking the Urugundi, the Heruli were their closest ally again — but there was war on the Steppe. While it lasted, it should prevent the tribes raiding the imperium. Unless other tribes intervened, it should free Odenathus to fight the Persians, and Gallienus to march against Postumus in Gaul. That must have been why Gallienus had sent him here. Perhaps the emperor would let him retire at last. It would be good to live in peace. When they were home, he would free Rebecca and the boy Simon. It would please old Calgacus. The things that would please Maximus were all too easy to imagine.

As he stood to get into the mailshirt, he heard the urgent triple rhythm of a horse being ridden fast. A challenge was called by a sentry, and the correct password given. The rider asked and was given directions to Naulobates. Ballista struggled into his war gear, and with Tarchon walked back up into the camp.

Few had found sleep easy after the news the scout brought had spread through the horde. Ballista had slept for a couple of hours. It was strange, being in the camp of an army going into battle the next morning but having no duties and not being involved in anxious last-moment counsels. Yet he still felt bone-tired, and his eyes were scratchy with fatigue.

Ballista had a good view. With his familia, and those that remained of the trained fighting men of the Roman embassy — just nine riders including himself — he had been summoned to attend Naulobates. There were other dignitaries present: the gudja, as ever shadowed by the aged haliurunna, two nobles of the Taifali from the west, and three chiefs of the Anthropophagi from somewhere far in the north.

Naulobates had taken station on a low fold in the ground to the rear of his army. Ballista sat on one of the big Sarmatian horses and surveyed the battlefield. Visibility was improving. The sun was up, and burning off the last of the low river mist. Below and immediately to his front was Naulobates’ own unit, acting as a reserve. These were the elite, all Heruli, many of them Rosomoni. The five thousand were strung out, side by side, and just two deep. Each man was backed by at least four tethered remounts. Ballista’s view was of lots of standards stirring above a sea of swishing horse tails.

The main army was about two bow shots beyond, divided into three more units of about five thousand each. To the right, their flank on the belt of trees by the Tanais, were the warriors of the tribes from the Rha. The various bandit chiefs were with them, and the whole was stiffened by the nomad Eutes. The Herul Aruth was in command. In the centre stood the rest of the Heruli under Uligagus. The left was held by the Agathyrsi and the Nervii. They were led by Artemidorus. These units were more compact, arrayed five deep in a formation Naulobates had referred to as ‘the thorn bushes’.

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.

Looking back over his left shoulder, Ballista saw the Prometheus banner following, many warriors in its wake. It had worked. The resentment and hatred in Saurmag was pulling him after the man who had expelled him from his native land, from the throne he had killed so many of his family and others to attain. Now, all that was left, Ballista thought, was to escape the murderous bastard.

As they entered the trees, the Alani were no more than fifty paces behind. Ballista leant very low over the neck of his mount to avoid the low branches. A pained cry and the sound of a rider falling indicated another had not been so provident.

Ballista wheeled to the right, back to the north, towards where Andonnoballus waited. Men and horses speckled with sunlight weaved through the trunks of trees. An arrow thrummed past Ballista’s ear.

All formation was lost. Men rode for themselves, jinking around thorny undergrowth, jumping fallen boughs. Maximus was still to Ballista’s right, old Calgacus now up on his left. The gods knew where the others of the familia were. The whooping pursuit was loud in his ears.

The ground fell away in front. Water sparkled ahead. The bank of the Tanais. He kicked on, set them to make the jump.

The big horse did not refuse. It jumped down. There was nothing below its hooves. Ballista leant right back in the saddle, stomach lurching as they dropped. The bay stumbled on landing in the shallow water. Ballista was thrown out of the saddle, to the right, up its neck.

The Sarmatian gathered itself, ploughed on through the river. With hands, arms and legs, Ballista fought to regain his seat. He had lost the reins. Lost his balance. The buckler on his left arm was impeding him. It was no good, he was slipping. Slowly, irrevocably, he was heading for a fall. The weight of his mail was pulling him down.

Come off here, and he knew he was dead. Or worse, a prisoner of that evil little shit Saurmag. Better go down fighting. He felt the last of his grip going.

A sharp pain cut into his right shoulder. He was hauled by the baldric of his sword belt back on to his horse. He grabbed the horns of the saddle, fished up the reins — thankfully they had not slipped over the Sarmatian’s head. A quick glance right and he saw Maximus grinning. He grinned back.

They were running fast along a part-submerged spit of shingle. Sliver shards of spray flew. The riverbank here was too high for the horses to jump. They had to find a place where the bank had fallen or where animals had broken it down. He looked along the top of the bank. There were riders up there, bows in hand. Allfather…

Ballista saw their red hair and tattoos. He looked over his shoulder — a straggle of his men and Heruli, not any Alani in sight.