Hippothous’s timing was all wrong. His shins barked against the side of the wagon. He was thrown head first on to the box and collided with the driver. It was like hitting a tree. Hippothous rebounded. Hands flailing, fingernails scrabbling on the wood, he was slipping, face down, back off the wagon.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. He was hauled up on to the box. Holding on for dear life, he struggled to his feet. The wagon was lurching and bumping like a mad thing. Hippothous started to thank the Sarmatian. But the driver grunted something and jerked his head back towards the enclosed body of the wagon. Above the clatter and squealing, Hippothous could hear screaming.
The Sarmatian flicked the long bullwhip out as one of the Alani pressed up from the rear. The rider ducked, and reined back. He was reaching for his bow.
Still clutching at one of the uprights, Hippothous drew his sword. He pulled back the felt hanging with his sword hand and stepped into the tent.
It took a time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He kept his blade out in front. There was sobbing, shouting, the clash of steel.
Two slaves — one of them Narcissus — were huddled down to his left. They were crying, their hands up in futile supplication.
Another figure was standing with his back to Hippothous. It was the interpreter Biomasos. He had a sword and was desperately fending off the attack of an Alan. There was a body on the floor behind the nomad. There was a reek of blood, and an acrid stench of urine and fear.
Hippothous went to aid the interpreter. He moved to his right. The floor of the wagon punched up under his feet and he staggered forward.
The Alan lunged. The point of his sword was aimed at Hippothous’s chest. Boots scrabbling for purchase, Hippothous got his own sword in the way. Sparks flew. The Alan retrieved his weapon, regained his balance, readying himself to strike again.
For a few frozen moments, the three men stood swaying. Pots and pans, any number of things, rattled and rolled around the dim interior.
The Alan feinted at Hippothous, then twisted and cut at the interpreter. The sword hit the interpreter’s forearm. A howl of agony, and Biomasos reeled away. Clutching his injury, he lost his balance and went crashing into the side of the tent. He went down, curled up in pain.
Hippothous struck. The Alan somehow wrenched his body out of the way. The momentum of Hippothous’s blow drove them together, chest to chest. The nomad’s beard rasped Hippothous’s face. Crushed together, boots shuffling and stamping, neither could get his sword into play. Their breath mingled, hot and foul.
Hippothous clawed with his left hand at the man’s eyes. The nomad got a grip on Hippothous’s throat, then shoved him away.
Fighting for balance, both men got their weapons up. As the wagon jolted along, they rolled like sailors in a storm; both searching for an opening. The eyes of the Alan were black, blazing with bloodlust.
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.