Appropriately enough, Manzik the mobad was praying when they arrived at the house he had taken. He finished as Ballista burst into the courtyard and said what he wanted.
‘I am afraid I cannot lead the Sassanids,’ Manzik said. ‘We mobads , with our own hands, can kill everything – ants, snakes, anything that walks, crawls or flies – we take pride in it. But we are forbidden to kill dogs or men.’
‘Tell your men to take orders from me.’ Ballista knew time was fast running out.
‘What about the baggage? Prince Narseh ordered us to guard it.’
‘If the army is defeated, the baggage will be the least of our concerns.’
‘Of course, you are right. Take the men. I will remain and attempt to protect the property of the prince and the warriors.’
Ballista had just over a hundred and thirty mounted men: Persians, some Suani, just four Romans. All well mounted, with good armour: enough for the first task. The second was another matter. He divided the cavalry into two columns, each waiting out of sight in an alley. Ballista was at the head of one, Rutilus the other. Castricius was to bring up the Suani foot. Pythonissa had been told to barricade herself in her house. Allfather knew if she would.
The Alani out in the valley before the village were not expecting trouble. Their line had disintegrated. Apart from forty or so gathered around a ragged standard in the centre, most had dismounted and were looting the dead. Even those still on horse had dropped their reins, were sitting all unconcerned; drinking, eating, chatting.
‘Now!’ Ballista said, and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Behind him, a Sassanid trumpet relayed the order. The Suani infantry, who had been blocking the mouth of the lane, leapt aside at the last moment. Ballista’s mount accelerated out into the open. There was a reassuring thunder of hooves behind. To his left, he saw the tall figure of Rutilus leading the other charge.
The nomads dropped their pickings, ran for their ponies, swung up into the saddle. All too late. Ballista saw the closest of the looters go down under Rutilus’s blade. The Alani around the standard were not caught so unprepared. A few managed to loose off arrows. They shrieked through the air, but none came close to Ballista. The nomads dragged swords clear of scabbards, made to stand up to the charge.
Ballista splashed through a strand of the Alontas and put the big Nisean charger straight at the pony of the Alan chief. The collision sent the shaggy small beast, still snapping, back on its haunches. The chief fought to retain his seat. Surging past, Ballista swung his blade overhand. The chief instinctively flung up an arm to protect his head. Ballista’s blade severed it below the elbow.
An Alan cut down at Ballista from the left. The northerner took the blow on his shield, without looking thrust his sword around the side of it, felt the steel tip catch, kicked on. A nomad in front was yanking his horse around to flee. Ballista smashed the edge of his blade backhanded down into the man’s left shoulder. The pony took off. The nomad toppled into the stony bed of the river. The stones ran red.
Ballista reined in, checked all around for threats. There were none. Probably half the Alani were down – loose ponies bolting everywhere – the rest were scattered in all directions, hunched low over the necks of their mounts, pushing hard for their individual safety.
‘Rally on me,’ Ballista bawled, first in Persian, then in Greek. His voice had been trained over the years to carry across a battlefield. ‘Form one wedge.’
The Sassanid clibanarii were good warriors. None spurred off in mindless pursuit. Within moments, they were jingling into formation. The thirty or so Suani were slower, some had to canter back from the beginnings of a chase. But soon they began to fall in behind.
Ballista looked back towards the village. A ragged column of Suani warriors on foot was jogging out. Castricius had them in hand.
‘At the trot, advance.’
Almost at once they rode into the wall of fog. The world was reduced to a few yards of shifting greyness. Sounds – the snort of a horse, the clink of metal touching metal – were muted. The air smelt of mist, water, wet stone and damp horse. It was like riding into the demesne of some bleak underworld.
Ballista glanced over each shoulder. Rutilus on one side, Maximus the other; serried ranks of Sassanids behind. The fog pearled on beards and cloaks. The damned croaking of frogs started up – brekeke-kek, ko-ax, ko-ax. From further away came an indistinct roaring, like surf on a rocky shore.
Ballista flinched. With a whir of wings, a flock of white doves dived out of the mist. They wheeled just over the column, and were gone. Shouts, curses from the rear. Ballista turned to the Persian officer tucked in behind him. ‘Pass the word for silence.’
‘Those birds are unclean. Like lepers, they must be driven out,’ the Persian said.
‘Surprise is our only hope. We must not let them know we are coming.’
The order to be quiet hissed back through the ranks.
The roaring was getting louder, sharp sounds within it becoming distinct.
‘Not far now,’ Ballista muttered.
Rutilus leant forward, whispered near Ballista’s ear, ‘Hamazasp can take us in the rear.’
Ballista actually laughed. ‘Allfather, I hope not.’ He stopped laughing. ‘It depends how active is his treachery; how brave he feels. I think he will wait and see who wins.’
A black, moving mass appeared ahead through the vapour; not above fifty yards. The clash of weapons, yells, and screams of men and horses. Ballista flung up his hand. They halted, automatically dressed their ranks. Ballista turned in the saddle. ‘We are there,’ he said softly. ‘They are still fighting. We are in time. Now – on my word, ride hard, but keep closed up, stop for nothing. Our infantry will be here to add their weight soon.’
‘Now!’
They moved off at a walk and went straight up to a close-in-hand canter. The noise of fighting swelled.
Even the Alani at the very rear did not see or hear them coming. The nomads were too noisily intent on the trapped Sassanid warriors in a tight-wedged knot beneath the lilac standard. The Alani were circling, pouring arrows in from all sides, from every trajectory.
The first of the Alani Ballista killed literally never knew what hit him. He had just released an arrow, was reaching for another, when Ballista’s sword caved in the back of his skull. Ballista neatly retrieved his weapon. The next man looked around, an arrow notched in his bowstring. Ballista’s heavy blade smashed bow, arrow, hands to ruin. The Nisean stallion barrelled a pony aside. Ballista forged on. Behind him welled up a chant of ‘ Peroz, Peroz.’ In front rose cries of fright.
A warrior with a shaggy sheepskin cap sliced at Ballista. Long training let the northerner watch the blade, take it on his own, roll his wrist to force it wide, and repost; all one fluid movement. The nomad jerked back. Not far enough – the steel sliced across his face. The blood sprayed into Ballista’s eyes; hot, stinging. Half blinded, Ballista finished the man with two chopping blows.
Ballista kicked on. He wiped his eyes, and his Nisean went down. He used a horn of the saddle to push himself off, throwing himself away from his falling horse. The ground rushed up. He landed awkwardly. His helmet rang on a stone. The great weight of the stallion crashed beside him.
Ballista tried to get up. Stay on the ground, and he would die. Sharp hooves were stamping all around. A wave of nausea engulfed him. His legs gave way. Curling up tight, his arms covering his head, the blackness overtook him.
Ballista did not know how long he had been unconscious – he was still in the same position – probably but moments. Legs straddled him. He groped for his sword. It was gone: the wrist loop must have snapped. He looked up. His eyes were gummed with blood; he did not know if it was his own. Maximus and Rutilus, back to back, stood over him. Suani warriors on foot ran past. They were cheering, laughing with the courage that comes from spearing fleeing enemies in the back.