For a little time he debated whether to climb down, and, like some Homeric hero, strip the Alani noble of his fancy scale armour. The Romans had a very special award for a general who defeated the enemy commander in single combat, the spolia opima. He thought better of it. He was neither an Achilles nor a Romulus. And the Alani would return in numbers at any moment.
‘You hungry?’ Maximus had jogged over. He tossed a bag of air-dried meat across to Ballista. Wherever they were, the Hibernian would produce the stuff. It was a good job Ballista liked it. He took a handful and threw the bag back.
Maximus nodded at the wagons. ‘Company.’ He walked off.
Ballista got a wine flask from the saddle of his horse. The animal was cropping the grass, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding drama. As Calgacus came up, Ballista embraced him and gave him a big kiss on top of his balding head.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ Calgacus said. ‘I am not a fucking Greek.’
Ballista punched Wulfstan’s arm, ruffled his hair and shook Hippothous by the hand. He was grinning with pleasure at their survival, with pleasure at still being alive himself.
‘Wonderful reinforcements,’ Maximus called over. ‘A child, an old cripple and a pederast secretary. Nothing can touch us now.’
‘Half-witted Hibernian shite.’ Calgacus’s mutter was, again, perfectly audible above the none-too-distant sounds of battle. ‘Brain in his prick.’ Calgacus, like the other newcomers, was armoured. He was carrying a heavy axe in his left hand. His right arm was still in splints.
Ballista wondered where Wulfstan had got his too-large mailcoat. It was a wonder the boy could stand, let alone move in it. He must be stronger than he looked.
‘Castricius is coming,’ Hippothous said. His voice echoed oddly from behind the ‘T’ opening of an antique Greek helmet he had acquired a year or two back in Ephesus, or Miletus. ‘He should be here in a moment.’
‘And so will the Alani.’ Ballista was still laughing. With an effort, he calmed himself down. ‘Hippothous, take a position between me and Tarchon. When Castricius comes, he can go between Maximus and me. Calgacus, go and watch Tarchon’s back. Wulfstan, stay here with me.’
‘Will they come again?’ Wulfstan asked.
‘Yes, but they have travelled a long way,’ Ballista said. ‘They and their horses are tired. If their next attack does not break through, they will draw off until tomorrow.’
No sooner had the others started moving off than Ballista could hear the thunder of approaching cavalry. It seemed to be approaching from both sides. He very much hoped he was right about the Alani.
The Alani did not make the mistake of approaching along the riverbed again. They must have forded the river up- and downstream. From both sides, a large band of riders swept around to link up on the Steppe to the north of the watercourse. They pulled up, a couple of hundred paces away, out of most effective bow range.
Castricius ran up. Ballista waved him over to where he wanted him to stand.
The Alani waited quietly behind two standards. One was an abstract design on cloth, a nomad tamga, the other a horsetail on a pole. In all, Ballista estimated about a hundred warriors. Maybe one in ten armoured. They seemed to be waiting for something; most likely a signal.
Ballista noted that there was no battle din from the wagons behind. Earlier, he had seen a big draco standard. The nomads were showing themselves disciplined enough to wait for the word of the chief who rode under the dragon. They would all attack at once. That was not good. Nor was the fact that down here by the river — good defensive position though it was — Ballista’s familia was outnumbered to the order of twenty to one.
The wind soughed through the lime trees, fretted at the thorn bushes. Out beyond the river, it raised little dust devils. They were the first Ballista had seen on the Steppe. The summer sun was drying the plains.
The nomad standards snapped in the breeze. Ballista wished he were standing under his own white draco; hearing its bronze jaws hiss and seeing its body writhe with menace. Ballista wished he were out there at the head of a confident troop of men, looking in, waiting to finish an outnumbered huddle of enemy. He pulled himself up. The Alani could finish the men in the wagon-laager, and do so quickly — if the nomads were well led, if they wanted it enough and, above all, if they were prepared to take the casualties. Ballista knew what he would have his men do if he were the Alani chief. They should ride up to the tree line, dismount, force their way through the scrub, some should provide covering shooting, the rest rush down the far bank, cross the stream, and storm the near bank. But Ballista also knew that, while they were doing it, his arrows would drop at least four or five of them; and then he would hope to take one or two with him in the final hand-to-hand struggle. Maximus, Hippothous, Castricius and Tarchon should do no worse than him. Wulfstan with his Herul bow and old Calgacus one-handed with his axe might take a few more. The Alani could kill them all, wipe them from the face of Middle Earth, but thirty or more of the nomads would not see the end of the day.
Thinking about the final moments, Ballista glanced over to where his hobbled horse grazed. A cowardly thought, the thought of a nithing, insinuated itself through his mind. No, he would not disgrace himself in his own eyes, or those of others, or those of the Allfather. When the last moments were close, he would get the boy Wulfstan on the horse. In the confusion, he might just have a chance to get clear. He could go north. Bearing the arms of Aluith, once Wulfstan told his story, the Heruli were likely to welcome him.
Ballista wondered what his own boys were doing, far away in Sicily. Would they ever hear of his death? He pushed down the self-pity. Allfather, if I fall, let your shield-maidens choose me for Valhalla; and then, and none too soon, many years from now, let them bring my sons to me there. Let us feast together through the long ages until the coming of the winter of winters, until the icy cold of Fimbulvetr brings on Ragnarok, and it is the end of all of us; gods and men.
The deep boom of a drum broke Ballista’s reverie, made Wulfstan next to him start. The beat was slow, deep, menacing.
‘The Persians do the same; it signifies nothing.’ Ballista made his voice sound dismissive. Wulfstan looked a little reassured.
Ballista stepped out from the cover of the lime and gazed out at the Alani host. The trees on the far bank did not altogether obscure his view. A warrior moved his horse out in front. A conical, gilded helmet on his head, silvered mail on his body, the nobleman shone like the sun. The Alan removed the helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Bareheaded, he raised his arms, presumably to address some high god or martial deity the Alani believed might bring them fortune in the grim work ahead.
‘Stay here.’ The decision was made on an instant. Bow and a couple of arrows in hand, Ballista brushed through the undergrowth. He slid on his arse down the bank. Holding the bow high, he splashed across the stream and launched himself up the far bank.
At the lip, he slowed, careful to rise up in the shelter of a tree. He could hear his familia calling — Come back; what the fuck are you doing? Ignoring them, he pushed through the bushes until he had a clear view.
He nocked, raised and drew in one motion. There was a warning shout from the ranks of the Alani. Ballista aimed, allowed for the wind from the north — a little higher and a shade to the left — and released.
Ballista knew he should run, but he had to watch. Two hundred paces — a very long shot indeed — the arrow seemed an age in flight. Alerted, the warrior in the gorgeous armour turned his head but did not desist from summoning the god of his people. The arrow took him in the thigh. The deity had rejected his importuning.
A roar of fury from the Alani. Ballista turned and ran. Fear and triumph added wings to his feet. He flew, like Hermes, down one bank, across the water, and up the other, behind the coming thunder of several hundred hooves, the yells of outrage, fury at the sacrilege.