The wagons were motionless, the defensive circle incomplete; more of a Latin ‘C’, with a lengthened and straight upper curve. Ballista could see at a glance why: a dead ox in the traces of the second wagon. At the lower left of the ‘C’, just in front of Ballista, three Alani were exchanging arrows with the occupants of the lead wagon. Ballista spotted the gudja at its rear, the Sarmatian driver at the front, and the long, red head of one of the Rosomoni aiming through a slit roughly hacked in the side. It was clear the Alani were not pressing home their attack but merely keeping the men in the wagon occupied.
A little further to the left, half a dozen or so Alani horsemen were riding away from the second wagon. A couple of loose horses ran with them, and there were at least three of the nomads left behind dead on the ground; an assault had failed. That was Ballista’s own wagon. In it was half the gold and other gifts intended for Naulobates.
There was little to be seen of the rest of the fighting from Ballista’s position. Nothing really, apart from Alani in the middle distance racing here and there, and a huge swirling cloud of dust beyond the wagons. That was back where the Heruli herd had been. It seemed to be the scene of the worst fighting.
Could five men and a boy make a difference? The whole was a messy, large-scale fight. Maybe they could, if they had surprise on their side. The Alani being closer than he had thought might help. Ballista wriggled and slid back down to the others.
Taking his reins back from Maximus, he swung back into the saddle. He gestured the others to come close, and quietly explained what he had seen. He outlined his plan, such as it was, in the language of the north. He spoke slowly so Tarchon could follow.
‘With the exception of Ochus, they will all be better horse archers than we are. So we have to get in close, try to trap them against the wagons, fight hand to hand. With luck, we might break them with our impetus. It is a pity we are not armoured, but our horses are bigger. Wrap your cloaks around your left arms to act as a sort of shield. We will charge in a boar’s snout. I will be at the apex. Wulfstan, you will tuck in behind.’
The boy bridled, but Ballista silenced him with a look.
‘Now, we need to get the horses out of this stream.’
About fifty yards further along was a break where largish animals — maybe deer or wild horses — came down to drink. They scrambled out on to the Steppe and formed up.
The three Alani were still skirmishing with the men in the first wagon. Four of the others had dismounted. Their horses were being held by their remaining mounted comrade. The ones on foot were preparing to storm the second wagon. They were about a hundred yards away.
Ballista arranged his cloak, unsheathed his long sword. As so often over the years, Maximus had taken station on his right; Tarchon fell in beyond the Hibernian. Calgacus was on Ballista’s left, Ochus beyond him. Ballista noticed the Herul had his bow in his hands. That was fine; it was the weapon of his people. Young Wulfstan’s horse was just behind, screened by the older riders. He would be safe in the first clash.
As Ballista took them straight from a walk into a controlled gallop, one of the Alani duelling with the first wagon saw them coming. The nomad yelled, pointed. As he did so, an arrow pitched him off his horse. But he had alerted the two men with him. Now they shouted warnings to the others. But they did not stop to fight or see if their yells were heeded. They wheeled their mounts and raced off between the two wagons.
Ballista angled the arrowhead of horsemen towards the remaining Alani. The ground thundered under the charge. The nomads hurled themselves on to their ponies, yanked their heads round and set off after their fleeing kinsmen. They did not even shoot back over the tails of their mounts.
Ballista slackened the pace, roaring for everyone to close up. He heard the blood roaring in his ears and laughed out loud. For the first time in months, he felt exhilarated, intensely alive; a man who could influence his own destiny.
As they cantered between the wagons, auxiliary soldiers stuck their heads out of the second one. They gave a thin cheer. Maybe they were not as bad as Ballista had thought. Maybe their centurion was not such a useless martinet after all. The gudja and Andonnoballus popped their heads out of the other wagon. Ballista waved. Andonnoballus placed the palm of his right hand to his forehead. The gudja did not respond.
Emerging into the centre of the part-formed wagon-laager, Ballista saw the seven retreating Alani approaching another group of about ten nomads. The latter were caracoling in front of one of the central wagons, against which they had trapped a small knot of the Cilician auxiliaries. The nomads galloped in, shooting as they went. About thirty paces out, they spun their mounts around then galloped away, shooting more arrows behind them. They were operating as individuals, but the combined effect was that there were always a lot of arrows hurtling towards the Roman soldiers.
You could not fault the Alani horsemanship, but Ballista thought they were poorly led. Where they were in the centre of the semicircle of wagons, they were enfiladed by half a dozen of the wagon drivers. These Sarmatians were shooting fast. There were a couple of Romans on the ground. But there were also a few loose Steppe ponies, and at least two Alani were down and looked unlikely to get up.
As the fugitive Alani riders reached those manoeuvring, they all whooped and, bending low over the necks of their ponies, melted away through the gaps between the wagons. In a moment, they had vanished off to the south.
Ballista brought his small group to a halt. Horses and men were blowing hard. So far, it could not have gone better — provided those Alani did not rally and return. He dismissed the possibility from his thinking. Long ago, on the Danube, his old general Gallus had told him that a vital element of command was the ability to put things out of your mind. Ballista had to concentrate on the real test that lay ahead.
Three Alani horsemen were galloping towards the last wagon. It was slewed out of line. Its driver lay dead some way off. Ballista could see movement inside. The remaining half of the gold and presents were in there. Should he intervene? No, if they were to survive this, they had to break the main body of the Alani.
Beyond the wagons, to the west, was utter chaos. Dozens of horses were stampeding and fighting; some in groups, some individually. Biting and kicking, white-eyed, mouths streaming, their flanks were thick with roped sweat. Most were riderless. Through the kicked-up dust and turf, some warriors could be seen hunched and twisting in the saddle. Many more of the riders wore the embroidered tunics and full beards of the Alani than the bulkier coats of the Heruli. Just one, possibly two, elongated red heads of the Rosomoni showed for a moment and were gone.
Ballista looked at the scene as a weak swimmer would look at a river in spate. If they went into that vortex, how could they hope to escape?
To Ballista’s left, Ochus shifted posture. His brothers were fighting, probably dying. It was no time for reflection.
‘The same as before,’ Ballista said. ‘We keep together, pin them against the loose horses, fight hand to hand. When we come out the other side, we wheel as one, go back in.’
They all nodded.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Time to go.’
The same as before, Ballista thought. But it was not. This time, the Alani would not obligingly run away. Ballista knew that none of them was likely to come out the other side.
As if to prove his prescience, a line of Alani formed at the edge of the maelstrom. There were ten or so, grim-faced, bows drawn.