Maximus reined his horse around again. He pretended to gaze off to the south-east, while watching the trees intently out of the corner of his eyes. Only the foliage moved in the north wind. It had not been that before. The movement had been lower, gone further than one tree. It had been too big for one of those mouse-things. It could easily have been a wild horse, deer or ass. Nothing moved except the leaves and branches. His horse dropped its head to graze. He pulled it up again. Still, nothing moved. He galloped back to the others.
When Maximus reached the other riders, he saw the problem straight away. No longer masked by the dust of their own wagons, another tall column of dust showed three or four miles behind. It was solitary, and went up straight until the wind took it off to the south. An experienced eye could read it like the gudja could read runes. It was raised by a compact body of cavalry moving fast. That much dust meant a large body of cavalry; most likely a hundred — or more, maybe a lot more.
‘The barrows offer some protection, but there will be no water there.’ Andonnoballus was countering the proposal of another Herul. Maximus fell in with the cavalcade. The mounted conference was conducted at a fast trot to keep ahead of the wagon train.
‘The atheling is right,’ Ochus said. ‘It may be several days before Naulobates’ men reach us. We may have to hold out until then.’
‘We must reach the watercourse ahead,’ Andonnoballus said with finality. ‘Use it as one side of the laager, and have the wagons coming off it in a semicircle.’
The others made noises of agreement.
‘I do not want to be upsetting anyone,’ Maximus said, ‘but there may be a problem. Something moving in the trees. We could be riding into an ambush.’
The jingle and creak of harness, the stamp of hooves were loud as they rode, digesting this unwelcome news.
Ballista was the first to speak. ‘I will take the four Roman auxiliaries who have horses, and those of my familia who are mounted. We will go ahead. It may be nothing. If there is a trap we will spring it. We may be able to fight through to the riverbank. If not, you form the wagon-laager in the open, and we will fall back to you.’
Andonnoballus and the Heruli agreed with no debate. The nomads spun their mounts and raced back to their stations around the caravan. Ballista explained the plan in Latin to Castricius, and asked him to call up the auxiliaries. The little Roman rode off, shouting and beckoning the troopers from the Cilician cavalry unit.
Maximus nudged his mount up on the left of Ballista. Hippothous had already taken the post to his right. It seemed strange not to see Calgacus there. Tarchon was close behind.
As they trotted forward, waiting, Maximus untied the helmet from one of the horns of his saddle. Once it was settled on his head, he took the small buckler from the pack behind him and strapped it very tight to his left forearm. He liked this new shield; it gave some protection, while leaving his left hand free for the reins or a bow. Next to him, Ballista ran through his pre-battle routine. Left hand to dagger on right hip, draw it a couple of inches, snap it back. Right hand to sword on left hip, same motions, then touch the healing stone tied to the scabbard.
‘Helmet and shield,’ Maximus reminded Ballista. The latter nodded acknowledgement and began to get his accoutrements into place. Ballista’s fingers fumbled with his chin strap. Maximus grinned.
Ballista was always nervous before combat; always had been. Once, lacing his boots, he had thrown up through sheer nerves. Maximus found it hard to understand. He felt the familiar feeling in his chest, hollow and tight at the same time, and the slight tremble in his arms, but that was nothing but excitement.
The others caught up. Castricius reined in next to Hippothous, two auxiliaries outside him. Ballista waved Tarchon alongside Maximus, the remaining two auxiliaries flanking the left of the Suanian.
A final glance along the line, and Ballista led them out across the front of the wagon train. He set a fast canter towards the river.
Ballista appeared the epitome of calm competence. Under his bird-of-prey-crested helm, his face looked fierce, ready to fight. Maximus knew Ballista would be fine when the fighting started. He also knew that, now, Ballista would be a tangle of apprehension.
The hooves rattled across the dry plain, stamping down the grey wormwood and the brown knotgrass. So far nothing moved in the line of the trees, not above half a mile off.
Maximus and Ballista craned their heads around to see the wagon train and beyond the dust raised by their pursuers. The latter was closer, but still a couple of miles away. The Alani riders were in sight; so far, a dark, undifferentiated mass at the foot of the cloud.
‘If nothing delays them, the wagons will reach the watercourse just before the Alani catch them,’ Ballista said. The words were perfectly audible. He was used to making himself heard on the field of battle.
‘If there is nothing hiding in that stream to hold them up,’ Maximus said.
‘If there is nothing there.’
A brace of partridges whirred out from a patch of longer grass. One of the Cilician troopers had to whip his mount back straight. Still no movement from the trees.
Maximus slid the bone ring on to his right thumb. He pulled back the felt cover of his gorytus, took out the recurve bow, notched an arrow to the right of the bow nomad-style. They all had their bows to hand. The soldiers were from a unit of mounted archers. Maximus wondered if they used the nomad thumb draw, wondered how good they would prove against nomads.
They were about two hundred paces from the covert, just beginning to relax, when they saw the riders. Pointed caps, drawn bows, embroidered tunics and trousers, boots, long swords at their sides, coming out of the trees. The Alani were there with the complete suddenness of an apparition.
They whooped, all ragged and uncoordinated. There were less than twenty of them. None were armoured, no banners flew above them. There were no obvious leaders.
They must be what is left of the original ambush party, Maximus thought. The rest must have driven the Heruli horses off south or gone away as messengers. Now the remainder will try to delay us long enough for their more numerous kinsmen to catch us.
‘Get in close, hand to hand, break them, make them run,’ Ballista roared. ‘We must not let them get at the wagons.’
The Alani were cantering forward. The first arrows flew from their line. The Romans replied. A shaft came at Maximus, deceptively slow, then terrifyingly fast. It sliced past a hand’s breadth or two away: a black line, hard to see. Maximus drew, aimed and released. The Alan was unhurt. He had missed. Bugger. He nocked another. The distance was fast diminishing. Arrows thrummed through the air. To the right, Hippothous pulled up; his horse lame. One of the Alani was swept backwards off his mount as if by an invisible hand. An arrow thumped into Maximus’s gorytus. Gods below, far too fucking close. Tarchon had gone. Maximus drew hard, the bone, wood and sinew of the composite bow groaning. In front, an Alani horse went tumbling, the bright fletching of an arrow in its windpipe. That’s the idea, Maximus thought. This time he aimed low, released. He missed again.
No more time. Maximus shoved the bow back into the gorytus. He slipped his hand through the loop of his sword, felt the sweat-worn leather of the hilt. It was snug in his hand. Two Alani were closing on him. He dropped the reins. Using his knees, he guided the horse towards the nomad on his left.