were moving. There was no wind.
‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.
The dark, hunched shapes of the steppe ponies and their riders moved out on to the floor of the valley. They milled for a time. Five hundred, a thousand – the exact number was hard to tell. With a whoop, the majority rode away to the north and vanished into the mist. They were behind the advancing Persians. Their arrival would be a complete surprise, most likely change the entire course of events. It was a perfect ambush. The Alani charge and withdrawal had been planned from the start. All the time the ambushers in the gulley had been waiting their moment.
About two hundred Alani remained in sight. In no particular order, they trotted south towards Dikaiosyne. They halted in a rough line about a hundred yards from the village.
Ballista turned to Pythonissa. ‘How many armed Suani do you have here?’
‘Around three hundred.’ She was admirably calm.
‘How many of them have horses?’
‘One in ten.’
‘Have the mounted gather in the village square. Those on foot must block the entrances to the alleyways that face north.’
She told an attendant to see to it. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked Ballista.
‘Talk to Hamazasp, then the mobad Manzik.’
‘Hamazasp will kill you.’
‘I will have the others with me.’ He pointed to Maximus, Castricius and Rutilus.
‘It is not enough. Ten of my mounted Suani are below; take them with you.’
The king of Iberia was quartered in another tower facing north. It was surrounded by his warriors. They did not seem unduly concerned by what had happened. They eyed the men who rode up with some hostility.
Ballista addressed a man in elaborate armour, obviously a leader. ‘I need to speak to Hamazasp.’
‘He is ill.’ The man spoke Greek with a heavy accent; his tone was dismissive.
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘No.’
‘If you do not tell him, Narseh will have you impaled.’
‘Narseh might not return. You are in no position to issue threats, Roman.’ He touched the hilt of his sword. His men shifted.
A figure appeared on the roof of the tower, looking down. It was the Iberian king. He did not speak.
‘Hamazasp,’ Ballista called up, ‘you must lead the warriors with you. We can brush aside the nomads before the village. If we are quick, we can save the day.’
Hamazasp stared down at Ballista with loathing. Still he did not speak. Then he turned away and was gone.
‘Not long for you now, Kinaidos.’ The Iberian laughed.
Ballista swallowed a retort to the insult – that bastard Hamazasp would suffer for saying he took it up the arse. Ballista backed his horse. The others did the same. When they were out of weapon reach, they wheeled and rode away.
Appropriately enough, Manzik the mobad was praying when they arrived at the house he had taken. He finished as Ballista burst into the courtyard and said what he wanted.
‘I am afraid I cannot lead the Sassanids,’ Manzik said. ‘We mobads , with our own hands, can kill everything – ants, snakes, anything that walks, crawls or flies – we take pride in it. But we are forbidden to kill dogs or men.’
‘Tell your men to take orders from me.’ Ballista knew time was fast running out.
‘What about the baggage? Prince Narseh ordered us to guard it.’
‘If the army is defeated, the baggage will be the least of our concerns.’
‘Of course, you are right. Take the men. I will remain and attempt to protect the property of the prince and the warriors.’
Ballista had just over a hundred and thirty mounted men: Persians, some Suani, just four Romans. All well mounted, with good armour: enough for the first task. The second was another matter. He divided the cavalry into two columns, each waiting out of sight in an alley. Ballista was at the head of one, Rutilus the other. Castricius was to bring up the Suani foot. Pythonissa had been told to barricade herself in her house. Allfather knew if she would.
The Alani out in the valley before the village were not expecting trouble. Their line had disintegrated. Apart from forty or so gathered around a ragged standard in the centre, most had dismounted and were looting the dead. Even those still on horse had dropped their reins, were sitting all unconcerned; drinking, eating, chatting.
‘Now!’ Ballista said, and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Behind him, a Sassanid trumpet relayed the order. The Suani infantry, who had been blocking the mouth of the lane, leapt aside at the last moment. Ballista’s mount accelerated out into the open. There was a reassuring thunder of hooves behind. To his left, he saw the tall figure of Rutilus leading the other charge.
The nomads dropped their pickings, ran for their ponies, swung up into the saddle. All too late. Ballista saw the closest of the looters go down under Rutilus’s blade. The Alani around the standard were not caught so unprepared. A few managed to loose off arrows. They shrieked through the air, but none came close to Ballista. The nomads dragged swords clear of scabbards, made to stand up to the charge.
Ballista splashed through a strand of the Alontas and put the big Nisean charger straight at the pony of the Alan chief. The collision sent the shaggy small beast, still snapping, back on its haunches. The chief fought to retain his seat. Surging past, Ballista swung his blade overhand. The chief instinctively flung up an arm to protect his head. Ballista’s blade severed it below the elbow.
An Alan cut down at Ballista from the left. The northerner took the blow on his shield, without looking thrust his sword around the side of it, felt the steel tip catch, kicked on. A nomad in front was yanking his horse around to flee. Ballista smashed the edge of his blade backhanded down into the man’s left shoulder. The pony took off. The nomad toppled into the stony bed of the river. The stones ran red.
Ballista reined in, checked all around for threats. There were none. Probably half the Alani were down – loose ponies bolting everywhere – the rest were scattered in all directions, hunched low over the necks of their mounts, pushing hard for their individual safety.
‘Rally on me,’ Ballista bawled, first in Persian, then in Greek. His voice had been trained over the years to carry across a battlefield. ‘Form one wedge.’
The Sassanid clibanarii were good warriors. None spurred off in mindless pursuit. Within moments, they were jingling into formation. The thirty or so Suani were slower, some had to canter back from the beginnings of a chase. But soon they began to fall in behind.
Ballista looked back towards the village. A ragged column of Suani warriors on foot was jogging out. Castricius had them in hand.
‘At the trot, advance.’
Almost at once they rode into the wall of fog. The world was reduced to a few yards of shifting greyness. Sounds – the snort of a horse, the clink of metal touching metal – were muted. The air smelt of mist, water, wet stone and damp horse. It was like riding into the demesne of some bleak underworld.
Ballista glanced over each shoulder. Rutilus on one side, Maximus the other; serried ranks of Sassanids behind. The fog pearled on beards and cloaks. The damned croaking of frogs started up – brekeke-kek, ko-ax, ko-ax. From further away came an indistinct roaring, like surf on a rocky shore.
Ballista flinched. With a whir of wings, a flock of white doves dived out of the mist. They wheeled just over the column, and were gone. Shouts, curses from the rear. Ballista turned to the Persian officer tucked in behind him. ‘Pass the word for silence.’
‘Those birds are unclean. Like lepers, they must be driven out,’ the Persian said.
‘Surprise is our only hope. We must not let them know we are coming.’
The order to be quiet hissed back through the ranks.
The roaring was getting louder, sharp sounds within it becoming distinct.
‘Not far now,’ Ballista muttered.
Rutilus leant forward, whispered near Ballista’s ear, ‘Hamazasp can take us in the rear.’
