Ballista had a good view. With his familia, and those that remained of the trained fighting men of the Roman embassy — just nine riders including himself — he had been summoned to attend Naulobates. There were other dignitaries present: the gudja, as ever shadowed by the aged haliurunna, two nobles of the Taifali from the west, and three chiefs of the Anthropophagi from somewhere far in the north.
Naulobates had taken station on a low fold in the ground to the rear of his army. Ballista sat on one of the big Sarmatian horses and surveyed the battlefield. Visibility was improving. The sun was up, and burning off the last of the low river mist. Below and immediately to his front was Naulobates’ own unit, acting as a reserve. These were the elite, all Heruli, many of them Rosomoni. The five thousand were strung out, side by side, and just two deep. Each man was backed by at least four tethered remounts. Ballista’s view was of lots of standards stirring above a sea of swishing horse tails.
The main army was about two bow shots beyond, divided into three more units of about five thousand each. To the right, their flank on the belt of trees by the Tanais, were the warriors of the tribes from the Rha. The various bandit chiefs were with them, and the whole was stiffened by the nomad Eutes. The Herul Aruth was in command. In the centre stood the rest of the Heruli under Uligagus. The left was held by the Agathyrsi and the Nervii. They were led by Artemidorus. These units were more compact, arrayed five deep in a formation Naulobates had referred to as ‘the thorn bushes’.
The Alani were about four bow shots from the main line of Naulobates’ force. Their disposition mirrored that of the Heruli: three units backed by a reserve. Ballista could just discern the small, indistinct shapes of their leaders riding about in front, but the groups of warriors were nothing but motionless dark blocks on the tawny Steppe.
As a professional, Ballista ran his eye over the whole. Naulobates had done well enough. The Herul had expected to be outnumbered. He had anchored one wing on the tree line by the riverbank and kept back a reserve to deal with any outflanking; either across the river or, more probably, around the other wing on the open Steppe. Gathering all the remounts behind the reserve might trick the Alani into thinking they were additional troops. Yet the plan was essentially defensive, containing no bold moves. There was nothing unexpected to unsettle or panic the enemy. It relied entirely on the fighting qualities of the warriors.
Ballista studied the enemy. At this distance, it was impossible to judge numbers accurately. Yet there did not appear to be more Alani on the field than Heruli. Of course, enemy numbers were often overestimated. Safrax might have left a force to screen the advance of the Urugundi, or he may have left a sizable body of warriors guarding their flocks. Yet it could be something else. At the battle of the Caspian Gates the previous year, Safrax had detached a force to lie in ambush. Naulobates had issued strict orders against any of his men leaving the line today. If they obeyed, any concealed Alani should not pose a problem. But there remained the danger that Safrax had sent some of his warriors on a wide flank march, sweeping out of sight around the Heruli.
If the Heruli were defeated, most of the broken men would stream away to the north and north-east, running back to their herds or settlements. Ballista looked down to the river in the west. From the previous night, he thought he could get his horse to swim the Tanais, even if he were still wearing armour. All those with him were good horsemen, except Tarchon. They could help the Suanian across then ride hard for Lake Maeotis. It would mean leaving the members of the mission still in Naulobates’ camp to their fate. Yet, as far as he knew, the Herul had no reason not to release the eunuch Amantius, three members of staff, two freedmen and a couple of slaves. One thing was certain, Ballista himself had no intention of falling into the hands of the Alani king he had defeated, or Safrax’s dependant, Saurmag, the prince whom he had driven out of Suania.
Movement caught Ballista’s eye from the Alani. In the raking light, elongated shadows were flitting about in front of their line. The dark blocks of warriors appeared to shift and sway. The wind from the north swept the sounds away. There was something eerie about alien pre-battle rituals which were too far away to be made out with any clarity, and which seemed to be conducted in complete silence.
Naulobates called the high-ranking Heruli on the hillock around him. Among them were Andonnoballus and Pharas. Together they trotted forward down the incline. The First-Brother would ride the lines, calling out the things he considered would put heart into his men.
Ballista and the other diplomatic visitors stayed where they were on the low hill. Ballista noticed that several in his party were looking uncertainly at the triad of chiefs from the distant north. Indeed, all three struck one as oddly unremarkable for a cannibal.
A high, uncanny howling came from the left of the Heruli battle line. It mixed with the wind fretting through the standards. Some of the Nervii had dismounted. They were throwing off their clothes and dancing, bare steel flashing in their hands. They danced wildly, drawing down from the high god the power of his favoured predator, the grey wolf. Soon they would be slathering, bestial, ready to rend and tear. It put Ballista in mind of home. As a young man he had watched his father dance as one of the Allfather’s wolf warriors before the shieldwall of the Angles.
All along the line the tribes followed their own practices; the blue-dyed and tattooed Agathyrsi, the red Heruli, the Eutes, Rogas, Goltescythae and the others. Ballista knew as well as anyone that men need all the help they can get to stand close to the steel. He pulled the dagger on his right hip an inch or so from its sheath, and commenced his own private ritual.
He watched Naulobates and his men turn to come back. He could hear the enemy war drums now. The Alani were moving forward, like the shadows of clouds, as if the surface of the Steppe itself had started to shift.
Andonnoballus reined in next to Ballista. ‘If the reserve fight, you should fight. I would have you back in favour with my… with the First-Brother.’
‘I do not see we have a choice,’ Ballista said.
He could see individual Alani: the barrels of their ponies, the riders themselves a smudge, the animals’ legs flickering through the dust.
Naulobates raised himself on the pommel of his saddle, looked this way and that, weighing things up. Satisfied, he drew his sword and flourished it above his head. The deep war drum of the Heruli beat. The standard with the three wolves and the arrow dipped to the fore. In front, hundreds of banners nodded in acknowledgement. The yip-yip-yip of the red warriors rose from the ranks. The three divisions of the front line walked forward, moved into a slow canter.
The Alani were closing fast. Padded and muffled, the riders looked top heavy on the little nomad ponies. Guiding with their legs, they drew their bows.
The air filled with the arrows of both sides. Thirty thousand horse archers were shooting as fast as possible. The shafts fell across the Steppe like squalls of rain. Men and horses went down.
Just when Ballista thought to see and hear the shock of collision, the front ranks of both sides wheeled and raced back, shooting all the time over the quarters of their ponies. The second did the same, then those following. A deadly gap of forty or fifty paces was established. Warriors rode up shooting, spun their mounts, rode away still shooting and turned back again. Advance-retreat, advance-retreat; it had the skill of some long-practised, deadly ritual or dance.