The Wolves of the North wor-5

by Harry Sidebottom

  Aluith had said Wulfstan would make a good Herul warrior. Should he approach Calgacus? Ask the old Caledonian to intercede with Ballista for his freedom? If he were manumitted now, out here on the Steppe, he could ask Andonnoballus for permission to join the horde of Naulobates. He would happily submit to re-enslavement, if that was what it took. He would rather be a slave of the Heruli than of the Romans. Among the former, valour could win true freedom and a future untainted by the past. Among them, he could rise to the right hand of a king.

  Such a course, however, entailed letting go his revenge. It meant men like Potamis, the trader at the rapids of the Borysthenes, and the others like him would go unpunished. And that could not be. Revenge was an honourable motive; none more so. Wulfstan would have his revenge. Afterwards, he might think of joining the Heruli.

  Y ip-yip-yip. Wulfstan now recognized the different tones of the Heruli calls. This one was the alarm.

  Yip-yip-yip. It was coming from the rear of the twin column. From his place in the lead wagon of the right-hand line, Wulfstan could not see anything. He leant way out to the side, hanging by one hand, the grass racing beneath him. Still, the following wagons and the dust obscured his view.

  Pharas the Rosomoni cantered up. He gave concise orders to the driver in Sarmatian. The whip flicked out above the oxen. They broke into a shambling flat-out run, their great dewlaps swinging. Pharas spurred ahead, towards where Andonnoballus rode at point.

  ‘What is it?’ Calgacus’s misshapen old head appeared through the hangings.

  ‘Alarm from the rear.’

  The Caledonian treated him to a withering look.

  Wulfstan turned to the driver. He had to yell to make himself heard. ‘What trouble?’ Wulfstan dredged out the words in Sarmatian.

  The driver was standing now, the better to ply his bullwhip. He jerked his head backwards. ‘Much dust… many riders… Alani.’

  Riding well out to the front, Maximus was worrying about women and about the feelings of the Heruli towards him. Wearing his mailcoat — everyone was wearing their battle gear now — he was sweating heavily in the hot sun.

  Maximus had not had a woman since the night before they left the town of Tanais. Three days up the river, three days waiting for the ox-carts and horses, and this was the twenty-first day out on the Steppe. Twenty-seven days without ploughing a field. That was nearly a month. He should have been ready to jump on anything; one of those female daemons with the nice tits — to Hades with the snake lower half, he could avoid going downstairs and concentrate on stopping her talking — or maybe even that hideous old Gothic witch. But, worryingly, he was not that desperate. He was almost used to the abstinence. Was this how the decline into impotence started? You just got used to not having it. He remembered Ballista and Demetrius talking about some old Greek writer who, when he could not get it up any more, described it as like being freed from a cruel tyrant. Maximus did not want that sort of freedom.

  There were some yip-yip-yip sounds a long way to the rear.

  Maximus was concerned if things would improve when they reached the camp of Naulobates. He had discovered that not all nomad tribes had the same attitudes to sex; far from it, indeed. One of them — he forgot which — would kill you if you fucked their women. But their wives might give you a view of the cave. Their explanation was that it was better other men could see it but it was unattainable than it was covered but easily reached. The men of another tribe — some eastern subjects of the Heruli — did not mind you sleeping with their wives, if they did not actually witness it. The Alani turned out to have many wives, but would disembowel you if you so much as looked at them. Now, the Heruli, or at least the Rosomoni among them — and they were quite open about this — had adopted the custom of one of the tribes they had subdued. Like the Agathyrsi, they now shared their women in common. They said it abolished jealousy; made them a true band of brothers.

  The yip-yip-yipping had not stopped.

  With true Steppe hospitality, the Rosomoni had no objection to honoured guests enjoying their women. Ochus, laughing and looking hard at Maximus, had said everything was good, provided the women did not find you too ugly. Which Maximus considered rich coming from a man with a head the shape of an upturned amphora. Anyway, he had already discovered from Andonnoballus that visitors were usually offered slave girls, whose opinions on male beauty were of no concern to anyone.

  It was not female rejection that was troubling Maximus. If you propositioned almost every woman you met — and he had made it his life rule to do almost exactly that — you got used to a high rate of refusal. Although, of course, it only needed a low percentage to agree to get you a grind or two a day. No, what was bothering Maximus was practice. If you had not spoken a language for a long time, it was difficult to just pick it up again. Maximus could not remember going this long without sex. Would that prove as difficult as, say, speaking Greek after several months of not?

  The yipping was closer, louder, more insistent. Maximus looked back towards the caravan. The wagons were moving much faster, probably as fast as the oxen could pull them. Dust was billowing up. In front and to one side of the two lines of wagons, a group of horsemen were talking. One or two more were galloping up.

  Something was wrong. There was a threat Maximus could not see.

  Before turning to ride back, Maximus automatically gazed all around. The plain rolled gently here, but not enough to hide more than one of those big mouse-like animals which had their burrows everywhere. The Steppe was empty, except for a group of three low kurgans a couple of hundred paces off to the left, and, about a mile and a half or more ahead to the north-east, a straggly line of dark trees. The latter had to mark an otherwise hidden stream of some sort. Beyond the trees, a line of lilac clouds rose on the horizon like a range of distant mountains in an otherwise perfectly blue and empty sky. As he wheeled his horse, Maximus saw movement among the trees. It ceased before he could focus.

  Maximus reined his horse around again. He pretended to gaze off to the south-east, while watching the trees intently out of the corner of his eyes. Only the foliage moved in the north wind. It had not been that before. The movement had been lower, gone further than one tree. It had been too big for one of those mouse-things. It could easily have been a wild horse, deer or ass. Nothing moved except the leaves and branches. His horse dropped its head to graze. He pulled it up again. Still, nothing moved. He galloped back to the others.

  When Maximus reached the other riders, he saw the problem straight away. No longer masked by the dust of their own wagons, another tall column of dust showed three or four miles behind. It was solitary, and went up straight until the wind took it off to the south. An experienced eye could read it like the gudja could read runes. It was raised by a compact body of cavalry moving fast. That much dust meant a large body of cavalry; most likely a hundred — or more, maybe a lot more.

  ‘The barrows offer some protection, but there will be no water there.’ Andonnoballus was countering the proposal of another Herul. Maximus fell in with the cavalcade. The mounted conference was conducted at a fast trot to keep ahead of the wagon train.

  ‘The atheling is right,’ Ochus said. ‘It may be several days before Naulobates’ men reach us. We may have to hold out until then.’

  ‘We must reach the watercourse ahead,’ Andonnoballus said with finality. ‘Use it as one side of the laager, and have the wagons coming off it in a semicircle.’

  The others made noises of agreement.

  ‘I do not want to be upsetting anyone,’ Maximus said, ‘but there may be a problem. Something moving in the trees. We could be riding into an ambush.’

  The jingle and creak of harness, the stamp of hooves were loud as they rode, digesting this unwelcome news.

  Ballista was the first to speak. ‘I will take the four Roman auxiliaries who have horses, and those of my familia who are mounted. We will go ahead. It may be nothing. If there is a trap we will spring it. We may be able to fight through to the ri
verbank. If not, you form the wagon-laager in the open, and we will fall back to you.’

  Andonnoballus and the Heruli agreed with no debate. The nomads spun their mounts and raced back to their stations around the caravan. Ballista explained the plan in Latin to Castricius, and asked him to call up the auxiliaries. The little Roman rode off, shouting and beckoning the troopers from the Cilician cavalry unit.

  Maximus nudged his mount up on the left of Ballista. Hippothous had already taken the post to his right. It seemed strange not to see Calgacus there. Tarchon was close behind.

  As they trotted forward, waiting, Maximus untied the helmet from one of the horns of his saddle. Once it was settled on his head, he took the small buckler from the pack behind him and strapped it very tight to his left forearm. He liked this new shield; it gave some protection, while leaving his left hand free for the reins or a bow. Next to him, Ballista ran through his pre-battle routine. Left hand to dagger on right hip, draw it a couple of inches, snap it back. Right hand to sword on left hip, same motions, then touch the healing stone tied to the scabbard.

  ‘Helmet and shield,’ Maximus reminded Ballista. The latter nodded acknowledgement and began to get his accoutrements into place. Ballista’s fingers fumbled with his chin strap. Maximus grinned.

  Ballista was always nervous before combat; always had been. Once, lacing his boots, he had thrown up through sheer nerves. Maximus found it hard to understand. He felt the familiar feeling in his chest, hollow and tight at the same time, and the slight tremble in his arms, but that was nothing but excitement.

  The others caught up. Castricius reined in next to Hippothous, two auxiliaries outside him. Ballista waved Tarchon alongside Maximus, the remaining two auxiliaries flanking the left of the Suanian.

  A final glance along the line, and Ballista led them out across the front of the wagon train. He set a fast canter towards the river.

  Ballista appeared the epitome of calm competence. Under his bird-of-prey-crested helm, his face looked fierce, ready to fight. Maximus knew Ballista would be fine when the fighting started. He also knew that, now, Ballista would be a tangle of apprehension.

  The hooves rattled across the dry plain, stamping down the grey wormwood and the brown knotgrass. So far nothing moved in the line of the trees, not above half a mile off.

  Maximus and Ballista craned their heads around to see the wagon train and beyond the dust raised by their pursuers. The latter was closer, but still a couple of miles away. The Alani riders were in sight; so far, a dark, undifferentiated mass at the foot of the cloud.

  ‘If nothing delays them, the wagons will reach the watercourse just before the Alani catch them,’ Ballista said. The words were perfectly audible. He was used to making himself heard on the field of battle.

  ‘If there is nothing hiding in that stream to hold them up,’ Maximus said.

  ‘If there is nothing there.’

  A brace of partridges whirred out from a patch of longer grass. One of the Cilician troopers had to whip his mount back straight. Still no movement from the trees.

  Maximus slid the bone ring on to his right thumb. He pulled back the felt cover of his gorytus, took out the recurve bow, notched an arrow to the right of the bow nomad-style. They all had their bows to hand. The soldiers were from a unit of mounted archers. Maximus wondered if they used the nomad thumb draw, wondered how good they would prove against nomads.

  They were about two hundred paces from the covert, just beginning to relax, when they saw the riders. Pointed caps, drawn bows, embroidered tunics and trousers, boots, long swords at their sides, coming out of the trees. The Alani were there with the complete suddenness of an apparition.

  They whooped, all ragged and uncoordinated. There were less than twenty of them. None were armoured, no banners flew above them. There were no obvious leaders.

  They must be what is left of the original ambush party, Maximus thought. The rest must have driven the Heruli horses off south or gone away as messengers. Now the remainder will try to delay us long enough for their more numerous kinsmen to catch us.

  ‘Get in close, hand to hand, break them, make them run,’ Ballista roared. ‘We must not let them get at the wagons.’

  The Alani were cantering forward. The first arrows flew from their line. The Romans replied. A shaft came at Maximus, deceptively slow, then terrifyingly fast. It sliced past a hand’s breadth or two away: a black line, hard to see. Maximus drew, aimed and released. The Alan was unhurt. He had missed. Bugger. He nocked another. The distance was fast diminishing. Arrows thrummed through the air. To the right, Hippothous pulled up; his horse lame. One of the Alani was swept backwards off his mount as if by an invisible hand. An arrow thumped into Maximus’s gorytus. Gods below, far too fucking close. Tarchon had gone. Maximus drew hard, the bone, wood and sinew of the composite bow groaning. In front, an Alani horse went tumbling, the bright fletching of an arrow in its windpipe. That’s the idea, Maximus thought. This time he aimed low, released. He missed again.

  No more time. Maximus shoved the bow back into the gorytus. He slipped his hand through the loop of his sword, felt the sweat-worn leather of the hilt. It was snug in his hand. Two Alani were closing on him. He dropped the reins. Using his knees, he guided the horse towards the nomad on his left.

  The three came together in a moment; many things happening at once. A strange clarity descended on Maximus, the battle calm that gave him time and made him such a killer. He blocked a downward cut from the left with his buckler. A splinter of wood cut his cheek, nearly took his eye. His left knee struck something hard. A surge of pain. The other man grunting in pain too. A sword cut from the right. Maximus caught it on his blade, rolled his wrist left to right — forced the other’s steel forward — rolled his wrist back, thrust overhand with much of his weight behind it. The point punctured the tunic, and deep enough into the flesh under it. The Alan howled, dropping his own weapon. Blood darkened the nomad embroidery on his flank. He was of no more account.

  Left hand gripping a saddle horn, Maximus pulled himself back. Using his momentum, he swung overhead at the back of the man to his left. The Alan twisted, got his own blade in the way. They were still knee to knee, no room for manoeuvre. Their swords were locked together; their horses circling. The nomad had a long Sassanid blade with no hilt. Maximus beat aside a hand clawing at his throat. He forced his sword to scrape down. Edge to edge, the steel rang. His fingers moments from being cut, the Alan jerked away. Maximus dived inside his guard. The sword sliced across the front of his tunic. It was not a clean blow, but enough to double him up in pain. Maximus finished him with a downward chop to the back of the neck.

  A respite — no Alani very near. Maximus searched for Ballista. The Angle was but a few horse lengths away. He was trading blows with a nomad. Maximus went to help. Before he arrived, the Alan crashed from his mount. Castricius drew up with two of the auxiliaries. Tarchon was scrambling on to a nomad pony. Hippothous was further off. He was on foot, despatching a wounded man. He was laughing. A third soldier appeared. The final one had vanished. There were only a couple of loose ponies and some dead Alani near by. The living nomads, no more than ten of them left, had ridden through the Roman line and continued on.

  ‘They are running,’ a soldier said.

  ‘They are making for the wagons,’ Ballista said. ‘Close on me. We must stop them.’

  In a loose line, the seven riders set off after them. Ballista took his party straight to a flat-out gallop. Yet it was obvious they would not catch the Alani before they reached the caravan.

  The wagons were still careering towards the watercourse, and thus towards the ten Alani. The five Heruli were now fanning out in front of the double line of wagons.

  Ballista’s men thundered on in their futile pursuit.

  Arrows ripped through the air between the Heruli and the ten Alan. The strong sunshine glinted on the vicious heads, flared the bright colours of the feathers. An Alani pony shied off to one side. Its rider slowly s
lid from the saddle. A Herul fell sideways. His horse trotting around in a circle to nuzzle him. He was trying to rise. Another Alan clutched his thigh, and yanked his mount off to the south.

  All the remaining Alani were racing off to the south. But as they sped across the face of the caravan, they loosed repeatedly at the leading caravan of the southern column. The oxen were hit. They were pulling up.

  ‘Calgacus and Wulfstan are in there,’ Maximus shouted.

  The following wagons drove past it on either side. The stricken wagon was lost to sight.

  ‘We must get to them,’ Ballista called.

  XVII

  Tarchon was riding holding on to the front horns of the saddle. He was holding on for grim death. Raised in the high mountains of the Croucasis, a Suanian warrior but not a nobleman, he made no claims to horsemanship. It was a pity the big Sarmatian horse he had got used to had been shot out from under him. The stray Alani pony he had caught was skittish and snappy.

  Ballista and the other five were drawing some lengths ahead. Tarchon wanted to drive his mount on with shoulders and arms like them. Yet he knew if he let go of the saddle horns, at this pace, most likely he would take a fall.

  It had been a good little fight back there. Tarchon laughed out loud. The Alani had been lining up Ballista’s back, composite bow at full draw. Tarchon had cleaved the nomad from the shoulder to the saddle. A mighty blow. The blow of a hero. Tarchon had saved Ballista’s life. He had repaid the Angle. But did it count, as no one seemed to have witnessed it? As he posed the question, Tarchon was furious with himself. What was he thinking? This was the sort of chiselling reckoning of some fat Greek merchant. This was unworthy of a Suanian warrior. Honour was not to be measured out like olive oil or salt fish.