The Wolves of the North wor-5

by Harry Sidebottom

  The wagon lurched. Some instinct warned Hippothous. He half turned, putting his back to the side of the wagon. With his left hand he unsheathed the dagger on his right hip and brought it up to guard his left.

  Another Alan was climbing into the wagon from the front. Hippothous made to thrust at his first opponent then swayed back, driving the dagger at the newcomer.

  The wagon suddenly yawed to the left. All three fighting men went staggering across to the opposite side of the tent. The wounded interpreter underfoot threatened to trip Hippothous, but he pushed himself back upright off a wooden strut. The two Alani also recovered. On either side of him, the steel in their hands glinted wickedly. Hippothous realized this could end only one way.

  The Alan on his left yelled. His sword clattered to the floor. His hands clawed at his left leg. A small knife — something innocuous like a fruit knife — was embedded in his thigh. Narcissus was scuttling back out of the way.

  Hippothous and the first Alan swung at the same moment — each hoping the other was distracted. Hippothous dropped to one knee. The nomad’s blade thrummed just over his head. It cracked through an upright, and tore a gash in the side of the tent. Hippothous’s sword took the man at the right knee. The man collapsed like a punctured wineskin, blood gushing.

  Bright light poured through the rent in the coverings.

  Hippothous rounded on the other Alan. The man was doubled up, long hair hanging down. He had wrenched the knife from his thigh, and dropped it. Both his hands were pressed tight to his wound. Sensing Hippothous, the nomad’s head came up. His open mouth was a wet, red circle in his beard. Hippothous smashed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face. Teeth and bone shattered. The Alan went down, Hippothous landing on top of him. Releasing his sword, he seized the man’s chin, yanked it up. He sawed his dagger across the exposed throat. The Alan’s blood was hot, soaking Hippothous’s clothes.

  Rolling off the man, Hippothous looked for his sword. It was gone somewhere out of sight. There was debris strewn everywhere, all of it bloodied. Hippothous still had the dagger. On hands and knees, like a beast red in tooth and claw, he hurled himself down the wagon at the other nomad.

  The Alan had lost his sword. Too slow to draw his dagger, he tried to fend off the attack with his bare hands. Hippothous slashed and stabbed with his dagger. The nomad’s arms were no defence. Hippothous pinned one down, hacked the other aside. Again and again he plunged the eight inches of steel into the man’s chest and stomach. It took a long time for him to stop moving.

  Hippothous dragged himself to his feet. The wagon had come to a standstill.

  Snatching up a sword — not his own — Hippothous stumbled over the scattered belongings and dead bodies to the rear of the wagon. Pulling back the hanging, he saw three more Alani galloping towards the immobile wagon.

  Gods below, this had to be the end.

  XIII

  Ballista led them along the bed of the small river. The bottom was firm, and the water came only up to the hocks of their horses. There were no trees flanking the stream, but there were dense patches of reeds. The vegetation on the banks was very green. A brace of snipe flew up, and winged around them.

  As soon as Maximus had seen the Alani, Ballista had called Wulfstan and Ochus in from the north. Before the Alani had reached the convoy, Ballista had taken his men down into the stream, out of sight.

  Above the plugging hooves, the rattle of harness and the wind sighing in the reeds, they could hear fighting. Ballista knew they were heading in the right general direction, although the high banks prevented them seeing anything. Ballista looked over his shoulder. They were all there, in single file: Maximus, Calgacus, Wulfstan, Tarchon, and the Herul Ochus. He kept them down to a very careful canter. The water splashed up like a spray of diamonds in the sun.

  The river turned to the east. Ballista thought this was as near as the cover would get them. He held up his hand to halt them, and reined back his mount. Jumping down, he got water in his boots. He handed his reins to Maximus and made the universal signal for silence — a finger to the lips — and an impromptu palm-down motion to indicate that no one was to move. The horsemen nodded.

  Ballista scrambled up the bank. He had no helmet or hat, and hoped his blond hair would not stand out from the reeds. His cloak and tunic were black, but both were travel-stained and sun-bleached, so might not draw the eye too much. Nearing the top of the bank, he got down on his stomach and, parting the reeds delicately, wriggled forward. Probably he was exercising too much caution: the fight must be at least two hundred yards away.

  Ballista was good at fieldcraft. He had been well trained. First, by his father’s people, the Angles; then by those of his maternal uncle, the Harii; finally, by everything that could be thrown at him during twenty-five years with Roman armies. But he was surprised. He had misjudged their progress. The nearest Alani were only about fifty yards away. Their attention was on the wagon train, and so away from him.

  The wagons were motionless, the defensive circle incomplete; more of a Latin ‘C’, with a lengthened and straight upper curve. Ballista could see at a glance why: a dead ox in the traces of the second wagon. At the lower left of the ‘C’, just in front of Ballista, three Alani were exchanging arrows with the occupants of the lead wagon. Ballista spotted the gudja at its rear, the Sarmatian driver at the front, and the long, red head of one of the Rosomoni aiming through a slit roughly hacked in the side. It was clear the Alani were not pressing home their attack but merely keeping the men in the wagon occupied.

  A little further to the left, half a dozen or so Alani horsemen were riding away from the second wagon. A couple of loose horses ran with them, and there were at least three of the nomads left behind dead on the ground; an assault had failed. That was Ballista’s own wagon. In it was half the gold and other gifts intended for Naulobates.

  There was little to be seen of the rest of the fighting from Ballista’s position. Nothing really, apart from Alani in the middle distance racing here and there, and a huge swirling cloud of dust beyond the wagons. That was back where the Heruli herd had been. It seemed to be the scene of the worst fighting.

  Could five men and a boy make a difference? The whole was a messy, large-scale fight. Maybe they could, if they had surprise on their side. The Alani being closer than he had thought might help. Ballista wriggled and slid back down to the others.

  Taking his reins back from Maximus, he swung back into the saddle. He gestured the others to come close, and quietly explained what he had seen. He outlined his plan, such as it was, in the language of the north. He spoke slowly so Tarchon could follow.

  ‘With the exception of Ochus, they will all be better horse archers than we are. So we have to get in close, try to trap them against the wagons, fight hand to hand. With luck, we might break them with our impetus. It is a pity we are not armoured, but our horses are bigger. Wrap your cloaks around your left arms to act as a sort of shield. We will charge in a boar’s snout. I will be at the apex. Wulfstan, you will tuck in behind.’

  The boy bridled, but Ballista silenced him with a look.

  ‘Now, we need to get the horses out of this stream.’

  About fifty yards further along was a break where largish animals — maybe deer or wild horses — came down to drink. They scrambled out on to the Steppe and formed up.

  The three Alani were still skirmishing with the men in the first wagon. Four of the others had dismounted. Their horses were being held by their remaining mounted comrade. The ones on foot were preparing to storm the second wagon. They were about a hundred yards away.

  Ballista arranged his cloak, unsheathed his long sword. As so often over the years, Maximus had taken station on his right; Tarchon fell in beyond the Hibernian. Calgacus was on Ballista’s left, Ochus beyond him. Ballista noticed the Herul had his bow in his hands. That was fine; it was the weapon of his people. Young Wulfstan’s horse was just behind, screened by the older riders. He would be safe in the first clash.

/>   As Ballista took them straight from a walk into a controlled gallop, one of the Alani duelling with the first wagon saw them coming. The nomad yelled, pointed. As he did so, an arrow pitched him off his horse. But he had alerted the two men with him. Now they shouted warnings to the others. But they did not stop to fight or see if their yells were heeded. They wheeled their mounts and raced off between the two wagons.

  Ballista angled the arrowhead of horsemen towards the remaining Alani. The ground thundered under the charge. The nomads hurled themselves on to their ponies, yanked their heads round and set off after their fleeing kinsmen. They did not even shoot back over the tails of their mounts.

  Ballista slackened the pace, roaring for everyone to close up. He heard the blood roaring in his ears and laughed out loud. For the first time in months, he felt exhilarated, intensely alive; a man who could influence his own destiny.

  As they cantered between the wagons, auxiliary soldiers stuck their heads out of the second one. They gave a thin cheer. Maybe they were not as bad as Ballista had thought. Maybe their centurion was not such a useless martinet after all. The gudja and Andonnoballus popped their heads out of the other wagon. Ballista waved. Andonnoballus placed the palm of his right hand to his forehead. The gudja did not respond.

  Emerging into the centre of the part-formed wagon-laager, Ballista saw the seven retreating Alani approaching another group of about ten nomads. The latter were caracoling in front of one of the central wagons, against which they had trapped a small knot of the Cilician auxiliaries. The nomads galloped in, shooting as they went. About thirty paces out, they spun their mounts around then galloped away, shooting more arrows behind them. They were operating as individuals, but the combined effect was that there were always a lot of arrows hurtling towards the Roman soldiers.

  You could not fault the Alani horsemanship, but Ballista thought they were poorly led. Where they were in the centre of the semicircle of wagons, they were enfiladed by half a dozen of the wagon drivers. These Sarmatians were shooting fast. There were a couple of Romans on the ground. But there were also a few loose Steppe ponies, and at least two Alani were down and looked unlikely to get up.

  As the fugitive Alani riders reached those manoeuvring, they all whooped and, bending low over the necks of their ponies, melted away through the gaps between the wagons. In a moment, they had vanished off to the south.

  Ballista brought his small group to a halt. Horses and men were blowing hard. So far, it could not have gone better — provided those Alani did not rally and return. He dismissed the possibility from his thinking. Long ago, on the Danube, his old general Gallus had told him that a vital element of command was the ability to put things out of your mind. Ballista had to concentrate on the real test that lay ahead.

  Three Alani horsemen were galloping towards the last wagon. It was slewed out of line. Its driver lay dead some way off. Ballista could see movement inside. The remaining half of the gold and presents were in there. Should he intervene? No, if they were to survive this, they had to break the main body of the Alani.

  Beyond the wagons, to the west, was utter chaos. Dozens of horses were stampeding and fighting; some in groups, some individually. Biting and kicking, white-eyed, mouths streaming, their flanks were thick with roped sweat. Most were riderless. Through the kicked-up dust and turf, some warriors could be seen hunched and twisting in the saddle. Many more of the riders wore the embroidered tunics and full beards of the Alani than the bulkier coats of the Heruli. Just one, possibly two, elongated red heads of the Rosomoni showed for a moment and were gone.

  Ballista looked at the scene as a weak swimmer would look at a river in spate. If they went into that vortex, how could they hope to escape?

  To Ballista’s left, Ochus shifted posture. His brothers were fighting, probably dying. It was no time for reflection.

  ‘The same as before,’ Ballista said. ‘We keep together, pin them against the loose horses, fight hand to hand. When we come out the other side, we wheel as one, go back in.’

  They all nodded.

  ‘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 re
ar 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.