As he recovered the ungainly weapon, Valens saw Decimus fall. Unable to aid him, Valens concentrated on punching the tip of the lance through the armour that shielded his opponent’s chest. The first thrust skidded off. On the second the scales of metal snapped, and the point struck deep.

Yip-yip-yip. The Heruli were exulting.

The great bear standard of the Satrap of Hyrkania was down.

There was a gasp of horror from the Sassanids.

There, on the lip of the river, was Naulobates. Like some malformed god of war, the King of the Heruli held aloft his grizzly trophy. No one could doubt that Naulobates had fulfilled his prophesy. Here was the severed head of Gondofarr, the Satrap of Hyrkania.

That was the end of the fight. But far from the end of the killing.

The Sassanid clibanarii, all pride forgotten, fought each other to escape from the riverbed. Yip-yipping, the Heruli massacred them.

As the Persians fled away to the south, the nomads followed.

The others in Valens’s command, even Narses, streamed after the rout.

Suddenly Valens was alone except for the injured and the dead.

Wearily, he dismounted. Decimus was lying a few paces away.

‘Rest easy, let me get at the wound.’

Decimus’s handsome face was contorted with pain. ‘Leave it.’ His words were little above a whisper. ‘A gut wound, I am done for.’

‘Let me look.’

‘No point. Put a coin in my mouth for the ferryman.’ The horse master tried to smile. ‘But before that, some water would be good.’

Valens went back to where his horse stood. All the others had run, either after the rout or off to the herds grazing to the north of the camp. There was a great gash on the horse’s near foreleg. In the heat of battle Valens had not noticed it take the wound. The beast would have to be put down.

Valens took his water flask from the saddle, and went back to Decimus.

The pursuit was receding away to the south. There would be much work for Charon at his ferry.

Valens unstoppered the flask, lifted Decimus’s head, and tried to trickle the water between his lips.

Decimus was dead.

Valens was unsure how long he sat cradling the head of the dead man. Not long, because the rider had not reached the edge of the camp and the vicinity of their tents when Valens saw him.

The man was mounted on a horse, not a pony, and he was riding west, heading purposefully along the riverbank.

Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

The Steppe

THERE WAS NO GOOD REASON for a Roman to go to the tents. None of them was a coward. But one was a traitor.