To go to war like a nomad was unsettling. Naulobates had told them not to wear armour. Dressed in the quilted jacket of a tribesman, Valens felt naked. They had been offered Heruli ponies, but these were bad-tempered beasts, intractable to those who did not know them. They had brought their own horses. Narses was mounted on his black Nisean stallion. In the light of what was to come, Valens hoped they had not made a fatal mistake.

Taller than the nomads, Valens looked up and down their lines.

There were just over three thousand light horsemen to the east with Andonnoballus. These were warriors from subject tribes. The Eutes had followed the Heruli all the way from the Northern Ocean. The wife-sharing Agathyrsi were more recent adherents. The blue tattoos of the latter made a contrast to those of their overlords.

The same number of riders waited on the right wing under Artemidorus. All those from here to the west were Heruli.

Each flank was outnumbered by more than two to one.

The odds were not so bad in the centre, under the standards of Naulobates. Those with the war leader almost matched their opponents. The majority here were Rosomoni. Their elongated skulls, dyed hair and tattoos, pronounced the Red Ones the elite warriors of the tribe. Also among the throng were their bravest slaves. To prove their valour, the latter were not allowed a shield. Otherwise they were equipped like their owners: bow and long sword, fur or quilted jacket. No matter the courage of masters and slaves, they and their small ponies could never withstand a charge from the terrible clibanarii on their huge horses.

A veteran had once told Valens that all pitched battles on an open field happen by mutual consent. Like a festival or a chorus in the theatre, they had their rhythms and pauses. This morning Valens saw the truth of the statement. It was three hours since dawn. Both sides had watched each other for the last hour. Neither had moved. The Persians had sacrificed a kid. The omens could not have been good. They brought out a second, then a third, before they were satisfied.

Now a Sassanid nobleman rode out alone from the centre of their line. His armour and that of his horse was chased with gold, and shone like a flame in the autumn sunshine. A low murmur of admiration, or perhaps greed, ran through the Heruli.

Perfectly calmly, the Persian reined in some thirty paces in front of Naulobates.

‘Gondofarr, Satrap of Hyrkania, by the grace of the Mazda-beloved Shapur, King of Kings, bids me tell you to heat the water and prepare his food. He would bathe and eat in your camp tonight.’

Naulobates nudged his pony forward. ‘There is no need. Gondofarr will never wash or taste food again. Tonight I will drink my kumis from his skull. Tomorrow his scalp will hang from my bridle, and his skin decorate my gorytus.’