The Wolves of the North (17 page)

‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Time to go.’

The same as before, Ballista thought. But it was not. This time, the Alani would not obligingly run away. Ballista knew that none of them was likely to come out the other side.

As if to prove his prescience, a line of Alani formed at the edge of the maelstrom. There were ten or so, grim-faced, bows drawn.

The wedge of horsemen gathered speed, Ballista at their apex. He saw the arrows released and crouched forward, trying to make as small a target as possible. If only he had armour, a helmet. The grass sped past. No arrow touched him. The smell of hot horse was strong.

The horse on his left stumbled. The feathers of an arrow
protruded from its chest. The horse lost its rhythm. Its front legs folded and it tipped forward, like a ship pitch-polling. Ballista saw old Calgacus frantically trying to push himself out of the horns of the saddle, trying to throw himself clear. Allfather, the thing was going to crush him, bury him with its weight.

Ballista heard the crash behind him. He could not see it. An arrow whipped past his face. Wulfstan was attempting to close up on his left. Ochus forced him back. The Herul was knee to knee with Ballista.

The Alani facing Ballista had drawn his sword. Ballista set his mount straight at the nomad. The animals ran into each other, chest to chest. The impact threw Ballista half out of the saddle, up on the neck. His horse was jarred to a standstill. The Alani Steppe pony had been knocked back on its haunches. Its rider was only just clinging on. Ballista recovered his seat, kicked on. His mount gathered itself, sprang forward.

He went to cut down to the left, across the neck of his horse. Another Alani swung at him from the right. Ballista brought his blade back, blocked the blow. The swords sang as they slid edge to edge.

A space opened, and Ballista was clear. No rider in proximity. He wheeled his horse around. It felt lame on a foreleg. Two Alani were flanking Wulfstan. The young Angle fended away the first blow. He ducked. The second narrowly missed his scalp.

Ballista booted his horse towards the fight. Wulfstan caught another thrust on his sword, but his left side was exposed. An Alani blade flashed. Ballista’s shouted warning was lost in the uproar.

From nowhere, an arrow took the Alani in the neck. He toppled as his pony ran on.

Ochus backed his mount, seeking a clear shot at Wulfstan’s other opponent.

The Alani saw Ballista coming, turned his mount on its toes.
Ballista cut to the head. The nomad’s blade came up. Ballista altered the angle. His sword cut deep into his opponent’s forearm. The man howled. Ballista withdrew the weapon, and thrust it into the nomad’s chest.

A blood-splattered Maximus surged alongside. Ballista circled his horse. The animal pecked as he did so. He was not sure it would stand long; it was in the hands of the
norns
. He put it out of his mind. Maximus was here, so too Wulfstan and Tarchon. The four were alone – Ochus had vanished, Calgacus was fallen.

A half-circle of Alani ringed them.

‘Close up!’ Ballista shouted. ‘Fight our way out together.’

As they jostled into line, the Alani backed their mounts. Then, without a signal, the nomads turned and rode off into the thinning battle.

Ochus galloped up.

‘They are going,’ the Herul said. ‘They are driving off most of our herd, but they are going. It is over for now.’

Hippothous watched the smoke from the pyre. Its lower stages were silver-grey, gnarled and massive, like the trunk of an ancient olive tree. Higher the wind took it, and plumed it away to the south. Hippothous was still surprised to be alive to see it.

When he had seen the three Alani galloping towards the wagon, he had gone back into the body of the vehicle. He had ordered Narcissus to his feet. The boy was shaking. Hippothous told him he had done well with the dagger. He picked up an Alani sword from the floor, put it in the slave’s hands. Hippothous sent him to the rear opening, told him to hit anyone who tried to climb in. If he did well, he would have his freedom. Narcissus had stumbled to his post.

Hippothous had tried to do similarly with the other slave, the one owned by the centurion. It had done no good. The whipling just cowered, sobbing. Hippothous kicked him hard.

The interpreter had staggered up. He had tied a makeshift tourniquet on his arm. He half fell as he bent to get a sword. Hippothous had told him instead to find a bow and bring it to him. Hippothous’s own spare
gorytus
was somewhere in the tent, and he was sure he had seen another. But the gods knew where – things were scattered all about. The interior was like the end of a Macedonian drinking session.

Hippothous had taken his own station at the front. He had peered out of the hanging. An arrow had winged towards him. He had ducked back.

The sounds of fighting, the whooping of the Alani and the higher yipping of the Heruli came from outside. In the gloom, Hippothous waited, trying to master his breathing, trying to fight down his fear.

After what seemed an eon, the noise lessened. Hippothous had peeped out again. The Alani had gone.

Hippothous had emerged into the ghastly aftermath. There were loose horses, some still running; others were wounded, either head down standing still, or limping. There were broken bits of weaponry in the grass, and arrows sprouting on unlikely surfaces. And, wherever you looked, there were dead men strewn. Ten were dead from the caravan: three auxiliaries, two of the Heruli – Aluith and Beras – and two of their slaves, the slave of the interpreter, and two Sarmatian drivers. Three others were severely wounded: old Calgacus, another auxiliary, and one of the Roman scribes. Mysteriously, two men were missing: Castricius and Hordeonius the centurion. No one had seen them during the fighting, and no one could remember where they had been before it started.

The Alani had left twelve of their number dead on the trampled grass. Hippothous was not squeamish – far from it – but watching the Heruli scalp and skin them had been unsettling. The Heruli were skilled; their long knives flicked and sliced quickly. They took
extra trouble over where the skin of the Alani was tattooed. Andonnoballus assured him the tattoos made the best trophies; wearing them made certain the dead men could not escape serving their killers in the afterlife. Hippothous knew most Hellenes would be both shocked and revolted by both deeds and belief, but as Herodotus had written everywhere, custom was king. Who was he to judge their habits? The mutilated corpses – repulsive pink-blue things, no longer human – were thrown out on the Steppe for the birds of the air and the beasts of the Steppe to eat.

Now, the next day, their own fallen – Heruli, Romans and Sarmatians – were consigned to the flames. It was not the elaborate and measured cremation of Philemuth. There were too many bodies and there was too little time. But you could not fault the Heruli for offerings: gold, furs, unguents, all sorts of expensive goods. Hippothous was impressed. Such disregard for the things of this world could allow the freedom to concentrate on the things that really mattered: on the souls of men – your own and others.

It was a large pyre. It had taken the remainder of the day of the ambush and the following morning to build. Two of the wagons had been dismantled to add to its bulk. Again, Hippothous was full of admiration. It exhibited a ruthless pragmatism, providing more firewood while also shortening the baggage train. After all, they were now two drivers short.

The pyre had more than enough room for Aluith and Berus to be placed a little apart. All the others would be interred here where they fell. The bones of the two Rosomoni, however, were to be carried back to the summer camp of the Heruli. Andonnoballus said there were further rites to be done. Everywhere, custom is king.

The smoke streamed out, high and long across the plains. It would be visible for many miles.

‘Will they come again?’ Ballista put the question that all the survivors had been thinking, but none had asked.

‘They might not,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘They had no banners, and none of them had armour. There were none of their nobles riding among them. It might be they were just a raiding party of young warriors out to prove themselves, maybe even from the Aorsoi or the Sirachoi or some other tribe subject to the Alani. It could be they were just bandits.’

The older Herul, Pharas, shook his elongated head. ‘I do not think so,
Atheling
. They were well informed. They knew which wagons held the Roman diplomatic gifts. But more than that – they fought too hard. Bandits never want to leave twelve of their own behind.’

Hippothous knew that was true.

‘They could have left their banners and armour off, hoping we would think them just a party of bandits,’ Pharas continued. ‘Safrax, the King of the Alani, is cunning. He could hope to get the Roman gold and our horses, maybe to kill the man who defeated him last year at the Caspian Gates, and then if your … if King Naulobates threatened him with war, Safrax can deny it was any of his doing.’

‘If they come, next time we will be ready,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘We have pickets out, a well-formed wagon-laager. Tomorrow, we will keep proper march discipline.’

Hippothous noted what he did not say. There were only just over twenty fit fighting men left with the caravan: Andonnoballus and Pharas themselves, their two Heruli ex-slaves, six Roman auxiliaries, eight Sarmatian drivers, the Gothic
gudja
, and Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous himself.

‘How long before the two messengers you sent yesterday will reach the camp of Naulobates?’ Ballista asked.

Straight after the retreat of the Alani, even as the dead were
being numbered and collected, Andonnoballus had presented the four surviving Heruli slaves with the shields of freedom. Two of them were immediately sent to get help. Thoughtful of encirclement, Andonnoballus ordered them initially to ride in different directions; one to the north-east, one due north.

‘It is some distance to the summer camp,’ Andonnoballus replied.

‘How long before they get there, and how long before Naulobates’ men will reach us?’ Ballista was insistent.

Andonnoballus and Pharas looked at each other. Pharas shrugged.

‘Riding hard – and they each have four spare horses – they might get there by nightfall today.’ Andonnoballus stopped.

‘And how long before we can expect relief?’ Ballista was not going to be deflected.

‘It might take a couple of days for King Naulobates to gather a large war party. After that, three days to ride down here.’ Andonnoballus smiled. ‘But, of course, we will be moving towards them ourselves.’

‘Four days at the minimum, more likely five, and it could even be six,’ Ballista said. ‘That is, if your men got through.’

‘If they got through,’ Andonnoballus agreed.

Calgacus was being trampled and kicked. The hooves were coming down so hard the ground was bucking, throwing him from side to side. The worst was the horse stamping on his right shoulder and arm. It was quite deliberate. The pain was unbelievable. He cried out. Someone was lifting his head. A flask was put to his lips. Liquid ran into his mouth and throat. It tasted bad. He choked, coughing it up. The flask was back at his lips. A familiar voice was talking some soothing but insistent rubbish.
Swallow it, swallow it.
He swallowed the stuff. They laid his head down. The noise and movement and pain receded. The darkness came back.

They were back in Sicily, out on the estate on the lower slopes of Aetna. Maximus had bought a horse. It was a big bay Sarmatian, called Akinakes. Anyone but the half-witted Hibernian could see it was unbreakable – cunning as a snake, vicious beyond reckoning. The thing was even named after some eastern weapon. Ballista had been holding the twitch when Maximus put the roller on its back. Feeling the unaccustomed weight, the mad animal had reared. Ignoring the pain of the twine twisted tight around its
upper lip, it had torn the wooden handle of the twitch clean out of Ballista’s hands.

The pain was white, then a dark red. Figures moved in its murk. One had bones in his hair. He was talking quietly to Ballista. It was the
gudja
. More of the unpleasant liquid at Calgacus’s mouth. Everything slipped away again.

Somehow, the Hibernian had got a saddle on the horse. They were in the big stone barn. It was always cool and dark in there. The Sarmatian was standing, ears back, showing a lot of white of eye.
Sure, I will be fine.
Maximus vaulted on to its back. For a moment, nothing happened.
Let go the bridle
. Ballista let it go. The horse took off. Ballista dived back over the gate out of the way. Rearing, plunging, the horse careered around the confined space. Maximus clung on like a monkey.

The horse stopped. It was snorting. Maximus grinned. The horse backed towards the wall. Maximus booted it forward. The horse ignored him. Maximus booted it some more. The horse reared high on to its back legs. Maximus clung on. The horse threw itself over backwards. It smashed Maximus against the wall. It slid down. Maximus was trapped, the immense weight of the horse grinding him against the rough stonework.

The horse scrambled up. Maximus lay unmoving. Long whip in hand, Calgacus jumped off the gate, Ballista with him. Quite deliberately, the horse kicked out at Maximus’s prone body – once, twice, three times. Then, careless of the lashes, it trotted to the far end of the barn. Bastard animal, utterly evil; as bad as any man.

The dark receded. The pain was back; the jolting, the thumping, the deafening noise. Gods, it all hurt. Calgacus opened his eyes.

Ballista was leaning over him. The lad smiled. He was trying not to look worried.

Maximus peered down at Calgacus. ‘You are not dead then.’
The Hibernian handed some coins to Ballista. He looked at Calgacus with grave disappointment. ‘I had a bet you would die.’

Ballista helped Calgacus sit up a little, gave him a drink. Watered wine, no hint of anything else.

Calgacus was in their wagon. It was rattling along faster than he had yet known. They had put lots of cushions and rugs under and around him, but they were still being jarred around. The motion was agony. His arm was splinted, and his shoulder strapped.