The Wolves of the North wor-5

by Harry Sidebottom

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 cr
y 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.

  XXVII

  The most creditable aspect of Naulobates’ handling of the battle on the Tanais, Ballista thought, had been the running away. As a professional soldier, you could not fault it.

  Ballista’s diversion at the height of the fighting had worked reasonably well. Saurmag and the horsemen under his command — exiled Suani as well as Alani — had broken off to chase him. Their pursuit had been curtailed when it reached Andonnoballus’s riders on the riverbank. The gap temporarily created in their encirclement had allowed Aruth, Pharas, Datius and some two thousand of the Eutes to dash to the safety of the Heruli battle line. The men under Ballista had returned for the loss of only ten Heruli and one Roman auxiliary. Of course, the rest of the Eutes who had not escaped, along with the warriors from the tribes along the Rha river and the bandits — some three thousand men all told — had been massacred. The Alani ambushers had been very diligent in hunting down those who had avoided the trap.

  The main battle had continued for several hours. The Alani reserve had moved up to face Andonnoballus’s men. All along the line, the bodies of cavalry wheeled, arrows flew, men and animals suffered and died in the choking dust. But it never came to hand-to-hand fighting. In mid-afternoon, it petered out, as stocks of arrows ran low, ponies tired, despite the use of remounts, and hot, thirsty men lost enthusiasm. The Alani had broken off first. But no one in the Heruli horde was in any doubt of the way the day had gone. The Heruli could fight again, but they knew they had lost.

  That night, Naulobates had ordered sentries posted, the campfires lit and the evening meal prepared and eaten. Afterwards, in strictest silence, the whole army had saddled up and melted away. All the wounded who could sit a horse had gone with them, supported by their kinsmen. Mindful of the prohibitions surrounding the latter, those too badly wounded to ride had been killed with quiet efficiency by their friends. Most had met it well. To the Heruli, the idea was not alien.

  The screen of scouts had followed the main body just before dawn. Later that morning, the Alani would have taken possession of a camp consisting of warm ashes, broken equipment, and the dead.

  The march south to the Tanais had taken four days. The hectic retreat was completed in just two, with the loss of only a couple of hundred dead ponies, some of the wounded and a handful of stragglers. While they had been away, the main camp and herds had been driven about thirty miles further north, to near a small tree-lined stream running through the Steppe.

  It was now four days since they had ridden exhausted mounts up to the main camp. Naulobates had told them they could rest easy; the Alani would not reach them for another two days. Ballista very much hoped this information had reached Naulobates from intrepid Heruli spies or scouts, and not from Brachus and the world of daemons. In case it derived from a fallible supernatural source, he and the familia now habitually went in full war gear, and never far from their horses.

  After the midday meal, Ballista went alone to the tent of Andonnoballus. Two Heruli stood guard at the entrance. Although it was one of the bigger structures, it was crowded with armed men. Andonnoballus was supported by the other two survivors of the Heruli who had met the embassy, Pharas and Datius, the two commanders of the bands of a hundred who had followed Ballista at the Tanais, Sarus and Amius, and the great generals Uligagus and Artemidorus. On Ballista’s side of the circle were Maximus, Calgacus, Tarchon, Hippothous and Castricius. They were all seated cross-legged on cushions, swords close at hand. Some had been talking quietly, with something of a conspiratorial air, but fell silent when Ballista entered.

  Without a word, Andonnoballus got up and unsheathed the akinakes from his hip. The colours in the steel shone in the light from the open doorway. A fly buzzed in the stifling quiet.

  Andonnoballus pointed the sword at Ballista. ‘Are you of the same mind as me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ballista held out his right arm.

  With his left hand, Andonnoballus gripped Ballista’s wrist. With his right he drew the edge of the akinakes across Ballista’s hand. The bright blood pooled in Ballista’s palm.

  Someone passed Ballista a drinking horn. He tipped his hand, to let the blood run into it. His palm hurt. The fly buzzed in imbecilic patterns. The blood dripped. After a time, someone gave him a strip of linen. He gave the vessel to Pharas, and bound his wound. He was glad the material was clean. He did not let his face betray any pain.

  Andonnoballus held out his right arm, and the procedure was repeated. When it was done, Pharas poured wine to mingle in the drinking horn with the blood of the two men.

  Ballista and Andonnoballus put an arm around the other’s shoulder, and each gripped the drinking horn with their free hand. They moved close, almost cheek to cheek. Ballista looked sideways into Andonnoballus’s grey eyes, at the moment so like those of his father. Together they lifted the vessel and drank.

  ‘By the sword and the cup, we are brothers,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘Henceforth, one mind in two bodies; what touches the one, touches the other.’

  ‘Brothers,’ Ballista said.

  The men in the tent, Heruli and Roman, raised their cups and cheered. They drank their undiluted wine.

  Ballista smiled. It would have been a mortal insult to reject the offer. A Herul could have only three blood-brothers. Ballista was unsure why Andonnoballus had done him this great honour. Perhaps it was politics; a move designed to bind him more closely to the Heruli in the fighting to come. It could be that Naulobates had instructed him to do it. Or perhaps Andonnoballus had read too much into the actions on the Tanais. It was hard enough to dissect one’s own motivation, let alone that of another from a different culture. Ballista himself was unsure why he had volunteered to lead the diversion. Still, the thing was an honour, and Ballista liked Andonnoballus well enough. At least, he could not prove worse than Morcar, his Angle half-brother.

  ‘Now you are my brother, you will come
to the assembly as a Herul,’ Andonnoballus said.

  Again no choice, Ballista thought. But he was altogether less happy with this aspect.

  In every Heruli camp an open space was left clear of tents for the assembly. The third drum of the summoning was beating as Ballista arrived with Andonnoballus and the other Heruli. The crowd was dense, but parted a little for the son of the First-Brother and the great generals. Standing near the front, hemmed in by the elongated heads, dyed-red hair and swirling red tattoos — all so very alien — Ballista wished Maximus and Calgacus had been able to come with him. He felt alone, and the horror of confined spaces was tight in his breathing.

  Naulobates climbed on to the open wagon.

  Loud, almost truculent cries greeted him. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Why have you summoned the assembly?’

  Naulobates raised his spear to quell the uproar somewhat. ‘I want your counsel.’

  ‘Ask what you want.’ ‘Spit it out.’ The tribesmen were more than boisterous. There was a hard, impatient edge to them. Many were drunk. Defeat had not improved their amenability.

  ‘Where is Aruth?’ Naulobates said.

  Aruth stepped into the small open space before the wagon. He moved unwillingly, but he had no choice. If he had not, clearly the crowd, heated by alcohol and self-righteous indignation, would have turned on him. As it was, many of the tribesmen bayed and yipped at the sight of him.

  Ballista had never really looked at Aruth before. He was a short, stocky man in middle age, with the elongated skull of the Rosomoni. He bore himself well. Only the rhythmic clenching of his right fist, emphasized by the red snake inked on the back of his hand, betrayed any nerves. He looked up, square into the face of the First-Brother.

  ‘Am I the elected war leader of the Heruli?’ Naulobates asked.

  The crowd bellowed in the affirmative to the rhetorical question.

  ‘At the Tanais, did I command that any man who left the ranks would be killed?’

  Again the crowd roared its assent.

  ‘Aruth led his men out of the line against orders,’ Naulobates said.