Chapter XXIX

 

 

 

The Alans delight in warfare. They regard well those who die in battle, while those who grow old and leave the world by natural causes they disdain as weak and cowardly. There is nothing in which they take more pride than in killing an enemy. As the spoils of victory they tear off their heads, and then strip their skins to hang as trophies on their war-horses.

– Ammianus Marcellinus, Book XXXI

 

The Alan line advances toward Malorix. Warriors remove their helmets, and for the first time the Romans can see that many in this raiding party are women.

Gelanor looks down from his horse to where Malorix stands. "You have led us to this. You are twice the fool I took you for, Sarmatian. These Amazons will kill you, and then us." He turns his horse away toward the shelter of the rocks.

The Alan leader raises her hand and two warriors move forward and dismount. One is tall and red haired. He ambles casually to where Malorix stands, looks him over with a derisory smile and hands over a leather lasso. The shorter man hands off his horse and removes his armour and other encumbrances. Stripping off his shirt he waits calmly arranging the lengths of his own lasso.

"That is Goar." The red-haired warrior jerks a thumb over one shoulder. "The last thing you will see in this life." As he walks away Malorix calls after him. "If it is the will of Targitai." The warrior hesitates in mid-step, nods without turning, and rejoins the Alan line.

Duris casts his regard over Goar and back to Malorix. "You are an expert in this form of combat?"

"I saw it once or twice, when I was young."

"Once or twice?" The Arab's countenance darkens visibly. "I hope you were paying attention."

Malorix feels a roiling in his stomach as he eyes his opponent, aware of the extent to which his former vigour has been sapped by illness and months in the mine. Goar has the bowed legs typical of steppe nomads. Stripped to the waist, he reveals a thick torso with powerful arms and legs. His unblinking eyes stare confidently from a head that seems to have no neck.

"God of War, whose name can never be uttered, aid me now." Malorix fingers the carefully cured rawhide in his hands. A Sarmatian lasso is used for hunting, sport, to unseat opposing cavalry, and for this — single combat. Malorix witnessed such combats in his youth at village festivals. Only once did he witness a challenge to the death, and in the end the spectators intervened to prevent the killing blow. Gold exchanged hands.

Weapons are forbidden, but beyond this the rules are simple. There are no rules.

The Alans begin to chatter amongst themselves in anticipation of the match. Likewise, some of the Romans drift from the protection of the boulders for a better look, their sporting instincts getting the better of their fear. Most, however, remain where they are. To all appearances Goar is a formidable opponent and Malorix will soon be dead.

The Alans close, forming a circle around the fighters. A signal from Alanis and the combat begins. Goar moves laterally in a deep crouch, carefully placing his feet while lightly twirling the lasso between his hands. Malorix echoes this movement, drawing back to increase the distance between them. They circle warily to catcalls and laughter, both men swinging the loop in one hand and holding the folded strands of rawhide in the other. The Alans begin to shout taunts and encouragement.

The lassos fly simultaneously. The Alan dodges easily, even as the loop of his lasso lands true in a wide circle on the ground around Malorix’ feet. Malorix jumps clear of the danger. A cheer erupts, and the combatants reel in their lines. Again they circle. A second throw and miss, then again. Before the next cast an Alan horse lunges forward out of line. An old trick, it captures Malorix’ attention for an instant. Goar launches his lasso. It falls around Malorix’ knees. To a great cheer, Goar pulls and lands Malorix on his back and shoulders in the dust.

The Alan is on him with astonishing speed, smashing fists to his body. Malorix is pinned flat, arms trapped beneath his body with his legs imprisoned by the lasso. Goar uses his crushing strength, forcing air from the Sarmatian’s lungs while his forearm drives down heavily on his throat. Despite throbbing temples and through bulging eyes, Malorix maintains a clear head. He is dying and wonders briefly if he will meet Silo again.

The Alan shifts his weight to improve his grip. In that moment Malorix finds one hand has come free. Desperately he thrusts it to Goar’s groin. Through the Alan’s loincloth and breeches he squeezes with all his remaining strength. The Alan’s legs and knees spasm, and with a scream he releases his hold, writhing into a ball with his forearms tucked between his knees.

Malorix rips the lasso from around his legs and pulls it taut around the Alan’s sinuous neck. On any other human the manoeuvre would have broken it. Goar merely tucks his chin into his powerful chest preventing the rope from gaining purchase. Once recovered sufficiently from the agony in his loins he shucks the rope easily. The combatants emerge on their feet, gasping for air.

Goar hunches over, nursing his pain. A ruse. His charge comes with undiminished speed, once again driving Malorix heavily into the ground. Both men roll in unison. Goar rises first, delivering a fist and a mighty kick to the thigh. Malorix stumbles but keeps his feet. They edge closer. Veins stand out on Goar’s temple and neck, his nostrils flared in controlled rage. The Alan attacks again using his lasso as a whip. Malorix parries, but in doing so exposes his ribs. Goar punches hard and as Malorix buckles spins behind him, wrapping the lasso around his neck. Malorix thrusts his forearms beneath the loop to prevent the fatal tightening of the noose. In so doing, he exposes his lower back to driving thrusts from the Alan’s knees. As the blows fall hard and furious, Malorix feels his will to fight ebbing. In desperation he grasps the lasso below his chin and drops hard to his knees. Goar, hands wrapped in the lasso from behind, is obliged to follow. Flying over Malorix’ head he lands on his back, his head exposed to his kneeling enemy.

Malorix doesn’t hesitate. Whipping the lasso round the Alan’s neck he shoots forward putting the entire weight of his body behind an elbow that connects just below the centre of the Alan’s ribcage. He feels the ribs crack as blood shoots from Goar’s mouth. With Goar now gasping and helpless, Malorix pulls the thong more tightly into a death-grip. Then, to the dismay of the Alan horsemen and the cheering of the Romans, he stands.

"Who will buy the life of this man?" he gasps, holding up his defeated enemy helpless in the stranglehold of the lasso. Helmets are fastened. Riders drift toward the flanks to gain position for battle. An Alan voice cries out, "It is an honourable death! Let him die."

Malorix has no wish to kill Goar. Among this unruly throng he will have kinsmen. No matter how honourable the death, they will be obliged to seek retribution, and the last thing Malorix needs is a blood feud.

"Pay me blood money! His life for his share of the gold."

No one moves, nor utters a sound. Malorix can make no more offers. The air is heavy with dust and expectation. He tightens his grip around Goar's neck and slowly lifts his hands. When they reach his chest he will flex once, and that will be the end.

"Enough!" Alanis. "You will have Goar’s share."

The sound of Alan grumbling is immediate. As Malorix loosens his grip, he is knocked from his feet by a horse and rider. From the corner of his eye he sees another horse and then another. Forced to roll away, again and again he moves to keep from being trampled. Goar has half risen to his feet, rubbing his neck, spitting blood. A bulky cataphract trots his horse next to him and drops a long-handled axe. "Finish this," he commands.

"Stop!" Alanis cries. Too late. Goar is already at a full run, the axe raised high for a killing blow. To Malorix, time seems to slow. Goar charges toward him like a bull breaking free from its enclosure, blood foaming from its mouth. A surge of voices, cheering, cursing. Among them, one stands out in the jumble of sound. Duris …

Malorix glimpses a bright flash, as his mind registers the end over end rotation of a dagger in flight. As it lands in the dirt before him he somersaults forward, snatching it from the ground and throwing in a single motion. Goar arches backward in mid-stride and his war axe tumbles to the ground. The Alan stands suspended by momentary inertia, then collapses, the handle of a dagger protruding from the socket of one eye.

A chorus of "Kill them!" erupts within Alan ranks, bows are drawn, swords clear their scabbards. Into these preparations for battle, Alanis rides forward. "Hold! By Targitai!" The Alan leader waves a horsetail staff causing many of the Alan horsemen to back away. "The Sarmatian has won fairly! We are bound by the sacred sword! A curse upon you if you violate the honour of this tribe."

She spurs her horse towards one warrior and then another. Each recoils in apparent fear of the waving horsetail. Last of all she faces the warrior who introduced the axe into the fight. They stand thus, horse to horse in silent confrontation, until in calibrated, insolent stages he too withdraws. Once again in control she rides to Goar’s body, leaps to the ground, and angrily pulls the dagger from the dead man’s face. She strides very deliberately to Malorix. For a moment he thinks she intends to plunge the bloody dagger into him, but she drops it at his feet.

"Know this, Sarmatian," she says, her voice shaking with fury. "If there is no gold, you and all of these," her hand sweeps disparagingly towards the Romans, "are as dead as Goar." She remounts and signals for her warriors to follow her. They comply in a confused flurry.

The red-haired warrior alone remains behind. He hoists Goar’s body up and across the dead man’s horse. A different Goar lies slumped there, hair hanging loose, dripping blood, one sightless eye staring accusingly at Malorix. The warrior climbs onto his horse. Leading Goar’s horse away he stops when he reaches Malorix. "The will of Targitai," he says, and then he too is gone.

The Alans gather in the distance, and another tribal council begins. Malorix wipes sweat and dirt from his face, as Duris approaches offering a water skin. He takes a long pull. It tastes delicious, like life. "I owe you a debt."

"It was," the Arab says, "a fortunate toss."

Malorix grunts his agreement through a mouthful of water. "Up to them now,” he gasps, nodding in the direction of the Alans.

"There is something amiss with them," Duris says, as he watches the antics of the distant horsemen. "The leader’s control is challenged. Were it otherwise the axe would never have entered the fight."

"That one man?"

Duris squints at the roiling dust cloud. "They are wild as jackals, but there are factions. He is her rival."

"We only need them for a few days. Let’s hope their greed is greater than their bloodlust."

The Arab’s expression turns doubtful. "Truly. But even as allies they pose a tactical problem."

"How?"

"In company such as this the Parthians will smell us long before they see us."