‘They do both read a lot of books,’ Calgacus conceded.
‘The Goths think reading books cuts your balls off, metaphorically speaking,’ Ballista said. ‘They could have a point.’
Something caught Maximus’s eye; an unexpected movement way off to the south, beyond the dust of the wagons.
‘Castricius and Hippothous have changed — got stranger — since we were in the Caucasus,’ Ballista continued.
There it was again: tiny black shapes rising up out of a line of trees by one of the hidden watercourses. Ten, twenty of them — more — moving north.
‘Over there.’ Maximus pointed.
Calgacus squinted short-sightedly. But Ballista saw them. Tarchon had seen them too. He clattered up to join the others.
Forty or more horsemen, riding hard towards the caravan.
Hippothous was out front of the caravan, riding with the four Heruli. The nomads did not talk much, and when they did it was in the language of Germania. Hippothous did not mind. A couple of them, Andonnoballus and Berus, spoke Greek. He passed the odd comment with them, but most of the time he was happy to ride in silence.
The long column stretched away behind. The wagon of the Gothic priest came first, the other nine, strung out in single file, following. Almost lost in the dust behind was the herd of Heruli horses, spare mounts and pack animals. The nomads’ slaves cantered around, hazing the horses into order.
Hippothous enjoyed the Steppe. The patterns made in the grass by the strong breeze pleased him. There were clouds chasing south. The big sky was shades of variegated blue, like the most delicate intaglio work, where a skilled craftsman had cut away layers of glass. There was a freedom to the expanse of the Steppe. There was space for a man to be what he wanted. The Heruli might be almost the antithesis of Hellenic civic life, but there was something strangely appealing about them. They offered opportunities. It was true they were ruled by a king — and from what he heard, Naulobates was attempting to set himself up as a tyrant — but at the same time they still seemed to have something approaching a rough, barbaric democracy. Clearly, men could say what they thought. Hippothous liked the fact that a man could rise on his merits. One of Naulobates’ chiefs had been a Greek slave in Trapezus. A man achieved status among them by his deeds in war and his words in council. Aside from the Rosomoni, birth did not count; nor, seemingly, wealth. Unlike in the imperium, a man’s past did not weigh him down. Hippothous thought he might do well with them. He was not bound to Ballista for ever. Ballista seemed to have less and less use for him as an accensus. As things were turning out, he might have to leave the northerner’s familia soon.
A corncrake took off in front of his horse. The following wind puffed the bird’s feathers up, giving it the size and appearance of a startled chicken.
One of the Heruli — Aluith — called out, his tone urgent. Hippothous looked to the south, where he was pointing. Horsemen, fifty or more, on small Steppe ponies. They must be Alani. They were over half a mile away, but closing fast.
A burst of guttural talk among the Heruli was cut short by Andonnoballus. He issued what had to be orders. Aluith wheeled his mount and set off in the direction of the leading wagon. Andonnoballus spoke some more. Pharas and Berus hared off towards the tail of the column. They kept to the far side of the approaching Alani.
Andonnoballus was about to leave when he remembered Hippothous. ‘The Alani are after your Roman gold and our horses. We are going to circle the wagons. You should choose a place to fight.’ He spoke in Greek. He grinned. ‘Try to stay alive.’ He booted his horse, and clattered off after Aluith.
Hippothous wondered what to do. He circled his horse. There was no sign of Ballista and the others to the north. Where in Hades had they gone? The first wagon was turning. The Sarmatian driver was plying his whip; the oxen shambling into a run. The Alani were still a way off. Hippothous could see them clearly now. Big men on small horses — they seemed top-heavy. It might have looked funny, if they were not so dangerous. They were all unarmoured. No banners flew above them. They were splitting up. The largest group — twenty- or thirty-strong — was angling towards the rear of the wagon train and the Heruli horse herd. Another, smaller bunch was aiming at the centre of the column. The final group, a dozen or so, was going to skirt around the front. They were coming straight towards Hippothous.
What to do? Hippothous considered riding away to the north. If the Alani were just after loot, they might not chase him. But then he would be alone on the Steppe. He was not ready for that. And he wanted to impress the Heruli. He might well need them. His own possessions were in the last wagon. His books — his precious copy of Polemon — and armour, his money and his slave, Narcissus; he was not about to let the nomads have them. He sawed on the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop in the tracks of Pharas and Berus.
Hippothous cut across the lead wagon. It was obvious at a glance the circle would not be complete in time. The Alani would reach it in a few moments. He could hear them whooping.
As Hippothous raced past the third and fourth wagons, he saw the Roman auxiliaries peering out. They looked baffled. Gods below — he ought to do something. He skidded his horse around alongside.
‘Where is your centurion?’
The soldiers looked blankly at him.
‘Where is Hordeonius?’ This time, he remembered to put it in Latin, the language of the army.
‘No idea, Dominus.’
Hippothous cursed. What should he do? Fuck. He swore like the lowest plebeian. His life as a bandit chief told him they should all just run. Maybe sacrifice someone so the rest could get away. He had no real experience of commanding troops in battle. The auxiliaries were looking at him expectantly. What would Ballista do?
‘You lot in the first wagon, protect the gold in the legate’s wagon ahead of you.’ He had to bellow to make himself heard. ‘The rest of you, follow me.’
The soldiers looked irresolute.
‘Now!’ Hippothous roared.
The auxiliaries tumbled out of the moving wagons, falling, tripping, dropping their weapons, their disciplina a thing of ignominy.
‘Follow me!’
Hippothous set off again towards the rear. He kept to a slow canter, trying to give the five soldiers on foot a chance to keep up. He looked over his shoulder. They were running, but falling behind anyway.
The Alani had reached the rear of the caravan. There was fighting amidst the herd of horses. The two Heruli and their six slaves had to be outnumbered at least three to one. Horses were trumpeting, stampeding in all directions. A thick pall of dust swirled over the chaos. A little nearer, some of the Alani were swarming around the rear of the wagons. Hippothous dug in his heels. With luck, the auxiliaries would follow him into the fight.
The Sarmatian driver of Hippothous’s wagon stood straddle-legged on the box. He wielded his whip with a will; lashing across the backs of his oxen then sending the vicious, knotted bullhide snaking out at any Alani horsemen who got too near. But he could not cover the rear of the wagon. Two Alani rode there, one of them leading a riderless horse.
Hippothous dragged his mount around so that he was going alongside the wagon. He lifted himself by the twin horns at the front of his saddle and wedged his left boot against the near-side one. His horse was only cantering, to keep pace with the wagon, yet the evident danger of falling under the wheels made the speed appear greater. Hippothous checked that his sword and weapons were not caught on the saddle. He steeled himself to jump. There was a burst of whooping behind him. An arrow shot past his head. He felt the wind of its passing and jumped.