The Sassanids were so close Valens could hear the jingle of their armour and weapons, hear them call encouragement to each other.

Brightly feathered arrows were falling thicker.

It is hard to aim a bow from a galloping horse, but it was only a matter of time until the first Roman rider or horse was brought down. Valens was tensed for the searing pain as an arrowhead punched into his back. A tiny part of him willed it to happen, to bring this torment to an end.

And then it was over. No more sounds of pursuit. No arrows falling.

Valens looked back. The Sassanids had reined to a ragged halt. As he watched, they wheeled their horses and rode away to the south.

Valens looked ahead. There, in front of the mounds, was a line of the strangest horsemen he had ever seen.

Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

The Steppe

NO ONE WAS PREPARED TO meet the Heruli.

The rumour was that they were not as other men. Rumour did not know the half of it.

Valens sat on his horse, open mouthed, oblivious to everything except the men in front of him.

The Heruli were dressed much as you would expect of nomads. They wore thick fur coats. The furs were luxurious – sable and marten and ermine – and their ornaments were gold. They rode small Steppe ponies. Each had a richly embroidered gorytus, a combined bow case and quiver, and had a long straight sword on their hip. Most carried a small round shield. From the tack of their ponies fluttered what looked suspiciously like human scalps.

That was where normality ended.

The faces of almost all the riders were covered in intricate tattoos. The hair and beards of many were dyed a bright red. But it was the heads of the red-haired warriors that were truly shocking. Their skulls were long – perhaps half as long again as that of a man – and they were pointed, like that of some predatory animal, or creature from a nightmare.

A tall rider nudged his pony forward.

‘Zirin,’ he said, and placed his right palm flat to his forehead.

Not knowing what the word meant, Valens saluted.

The rider smiled. Without the tattoos and the red dye and the deformed skull, he would have been handsome.

‘I am Andonnoballus, son of Naulobates who rules all the grasslands from the Sea of Azov to the Volga. My father would have come to meet you himself, but he is . . . away.’

Andonnoballus spoke Greek with a slight accent.

‘Health and great joy,’ Valens replied in the same language. ‘My name is Marcus Aelius Valens.’

‘We were warned to expect an officer called Severus,’ Andonnoballus said.

‘He is dead.’

‘My condolences.’ Three more nomads came forward. ‘These are my brothers – Aruth, Uligagus and Artemidorus.’