Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

‘The daemons of death are afraid of me.’ Castricius had a far-away look.

‘The portent could not have been worse,’ Alaric said. ‘Now, we must look to defend the camp.’

‘It would be no use,’ Ballista said.

Alaric continued to talk.

Ballista did not listen. He was looking all around, thinking. It was difficult to take everything in: the approaching cavalry, the confusion of the battle line, the camp, with the boys looking after the restless mass of cattle, and the pitiful number of wounded guards in the wagons. The noise of the oxen reminded him of something that had happened when the Alani had attacked the embassy on the way out. A stratagem he had read was in the back of his mind.

‘The boys with the oxen are herdsmen?’ Ballista asked.

‘Yes,’ Alaric said.

‘They could drive that herd?’

‘Of course.’ Alaric looked exasperated. ‘The camp?’

‘How many of the injured can still sit a horse?’

‘Twenty, maybe thirty. Why?’

‘Here is what we will do. Alaric, get the boys and all the men that can ride mounted. Have the others cut free four wagons, drag them out of the laager to make an opening. All of us here, get on horseback.’

Everyone was staring at him.

‘I think it was Hannibal, maybe in Polybius. When the Alani outflanking riders get near, we are going to stampede all those oxen into them.’

‘The First-Brother was right about you,’ Alaric said. ‘Loki himself could teach nothing to you. You are Starkad’s grandson in your cunning.’

‘What if it does not work?’ Hippothous asked.

‘Then we fall back on my other deep plan,’ Ballista said.

‘Which is?’

‘Which is every man runs as if all the daemons of the underworld were snapping at his heels.’

Mounted, armoured, flanked by his two closest friends, Ballista felt the usual apprehension. Maximus never seemed to feel it, but Ballista always did. No matter how many battles he survived, he always feared he would die, or, somehow even more oppressive, would let down those around him, would disgrace himself. He pulled the dagger on his right hip out an inch or two, snapped it back, went into the vaguely soothing pre-battle ritual of his own devising.

Behind him, the seething mass of oxen bellowed. The herders kept them back from the opening with difficulty. The crack and sting of the long, knotted hide whips added to the frenzy of the animals.

Ballista had led out eleven Roman riders. The eunuch Amantius, the scribe and the messenger, and the two slaves had been left in the laager as being of no use. With twenty wounded Heruli warriors and a hundred herdboys, those Romans considered martial enough were drawn up in a mounted line masking where the wagons had been hauled clear.

The oncoming Alani had seen them and deployed into a deep line, at least five hundred wide. They were bearing down, whooping. As Ballista had hoped, the nomads had proved unable to resist the obvious chance to get among the booty of the camp.

The Alani were closing fast, the bouncing, short-legged run of their ponies eating up the distance. Five hundred paces; four hundred. It had to be judged right. Three hundred. The Alani rode with their bows or weapons held out wide to the right, not to catch the sides of their mounts. Two hundred paces. They were committed. It had to be now.

Ballista made the signal with his bow — the arrow with the bright fletchings shot almost vertical into the dark sky.

Neat as could be, the screen of horsemen parted, making two lanes. There was a terrible sound, like stones being ground by a river in spate. Bucking, kicking, snorting in fury, the first of the near-maddened bullocks thundered past. In moments, there was a solid flood of oxen.

The Alani sawed on their reins, pulled their ponies back on to their haunches as they tried to stop, to get out of the way. Their numbers, the depth of their formation, were against them. Ponies barrelled into each other. Riders fought to stay in the saddle.

The onrush caught the Alani. The solid weight of the close-packed bullocks crashed into and through them. Men and ponies went down beneath the thousands of pounding hooves. Ballista watched with horrified revulsion the body of one of the Alani bouncing off the ground as it was stamped again and again, and was reduced to a broken bundle of blood-stained, fouled rags, the shattered white of a bone protruding obscenely.

It was accomplished almost before Ballista could comprehend the totality. The outflanking column of Alani no longer existed. The Steppe where it had galloped so proudly was dotted with knots of fleeing horsemen and a widening spread of escaping oxen.

The majority of the Alani were running south past the western edge of the battle line.

‘With me! With me!’ Ballista pushed the big Sarmatian into an in-hand gallop after them.

Already, individuals at the rear left of the Alani main fighting line were turning and slipping away. The sight of their fellow tribesmen routing past them had undermined their resolve, filling their minds with shapeless but awful visions of catastrophe.

A tight group of riders was battering its way across the path of the fleeing Alani. Their arms waved, their mouths were open, shouting unheard reproaches. A banner with a picture of a giant chained to a mountain flew above them.

Caught up in the insanity of the violence, Ballista laughed. Saurmag thought to halt the flight of the outflanking column. The Suanian had no hope of success. Instead, the gods were delivering him to Ballista.

‘With me! With me!’ Ballista angled through the dust and chaos towards the banner. Memories of a tiny underground cell, himself crouched naked, jagged rock cutting his flesh, overwhelmed him. The man who had had him flung into that place was a few paces away. Revenge was here for the taking.

Saurmag saw him coming. The Suanian pulled up, drew a blade. He was yelling at his men. Would he run? Would he fight? His indecision was evident.

Two riders, braver than their master, pushed past Saurmag.

Maximus reached them first. He went for the one on the right. Calgacus crashed his mount into the other. Ballista urged his mount between the duels. Saurmag was just ahead.

Another Alan surged into Ballista’s path. The nomad cut at his head. Ballista ducked under the swish of the blow. He thrust back, missed. He tried to keep moving, but the Alan was persistent. Ballista blocked another blow. Saurmag was pulling the head of his horse around. The little bastard was going to run.

A jarring impact — a searing pain in his right arm. Ballista had paid the penalty for his distraction. He could feel the blood running hot down his arm. The Alan cut at his head. As he took it on his own blade, Ballista felt the broken rings of mail cutting into his bicep.

Hampered by the wound, Ballista could only defend. His arm was stiffening, weakening. Watch the blade, watch the blade. He had to put Saurmag out of his mind, summon all his will to survive.

The Alan was pressing his advantage, his steel a living thing seeking Ballista’s life. There was nothing in the world except the flickering shine of steel. Watch the blade.

Another flash of light, from an unexpected quarter. The Alan rocked in the saddle. Maximus struck again, and the Alan — his head a thing of horror — toppled from the saddle.

The sound of the outside world rushed back, an almost physical blow in its confused immensity.

The Alani were fleeing; not just this wing, the whole horde. When panic grips an army, it is over in moments, completely irreversible.

Tarchon was in front of Ballista, grinning like a madman, like a devotee of some ecstatic cult. He was jabbering in his native tongue. He had a bloody sword in one hand, something heavy in the other. He held it out to Ballista like a proud child.