gentle conversation. Niceas! ’ He raised a hand. ‘Halt! Chargers and armour, now!’
The orderly column fell apart. The old soldiers were the fastest - Niceas was in his armour and up on his best warhorse while Ajax was still fumbling at a basket pannier for the sword he’d been lent. Philokles had no armour, so he sat on his horse and watched Kineas don his own.
‘What did you see?’ he asked.
‘Ataelus. He’s coming in towards us at a flat gallop, and shooting behind him - a nice trick if you can learn it. No - farther away. Look up the valley.’ Kineas had his breast and back plate fastened, his helmet locked and the hinged cheek pieces down, and was trying to get control of his charger, who was not having any of it.
Another minute passed as men forced their helmets on or fought with straps and buckles. Niceas served out javelins. Kineas finally got up on his warhorse, embarrassed by looking like a new recruit in front of his men. The grass here grew in heavy tufts that formed small mounds and made walking nearly impossible and mounting even more difficult. Horses on the other hand seemed to walk easily among the tussocks. From a distance, the hilly plain stretched away to the hills beyond like a rippled green cloth, with no sign of the treacherous ground under the lush green grass.
Ataelus was one grassy rise away, and Kineas could see riders pursuing him a few stades back. They were small men on small horses. A few had bows, most had javelins, and none had armour. There were quite a few of them. Even as they watched, Ataelus changed direction, riding wide of Kineas’s troop and heading north beyond bowshot.
‘Diodorus! Take - take Ajax and support the Scyth. Get on their flank and harry them if they ignore you. The rest of you, knee to knee. Now! Two lines, and move!’
He had ten fighting men - a tiny number, but they had some advantages and the Scyth had brought the Getae in close. He thought that he’d have one chance to charge them and scatter them, force them into close action where his big, grain-fed military horses would overpower their ponies.
‘On me. Trot.’
The Getae were still coming on. At this distance they might just be seeing the armour, and the horse size would be hard to judge . . .
‘At them!’ Kineas had his horse in hand, was ready for the change to the long surge of the beast’s powerful hindquarters. He trusted the stallion to know how to gallop over the tussocks - if he misjudged, they’d be dead in a heartbeat. ‘Artemis!’ he cried, and the veterans took it up - Artemis, Artemis! It was a pale, thin remnant of the sound that three hundred of them had made, but loud enough.
The initial charge was going to be successful. He could feel it already in his balls, see the next act of the play as easily as if he had written it himself. He rose a little in his seat, pressed his horse’s sides with his knees and threw his light javelin into the side of a Getae. The next one pivoted his pony on its haunches, pulling her mouth viciously, but he was too slow, and Kineas’s warhorse rode the smaller horse over without changing gait. A boy - brave, or perhaps simply frozen - waited for him, sitting on his horse with his bow drawn. Kineas put his head down to take the point of the arrow on his helmet and leaned forward with his heavy javelin. The bow twanged, a singular sound even in the mêlèe.
The arrow missed - it went the gods knew where - and Kineas reversed his javelin in both hands and swung it like a staff, knocking the boy clear of the saddle. At the end of the stroke he reversed the staff again and turned his head. He drew rein, used his rein hand to push the helmet back on his head so that he could see and snapped his head right and left looking for friends and foes.
Niceas was right by him, mumbling a litany of prayers to Athena, his heavy javelin reversed and held short in his fist, dripping red on to the
The orderly column fell apart. The old soldiers were the fastest - Niceas was in his armour and up on his best warhorse while Ajax was still fumbling at a basket pannier for the sword he’d been lent. Philokles had no armour, so he sat on his horse and watched Kineas don his own.
‘What did you see?’ he asked.
‘Ataelus. He’s coming in towards us at a flat gallop, and shooting behind him - a nice trick if you can learn it. No - farther away. Look up the valley.’ Kineas had his breast and back plate fastened, his helmet locked and the hinged cheek pieces down, and was trying to get control of his charger, who was not having any of it.
Another minute passed as men forced their helmets on or fought with straps and buckles. Niceas served out javelins. Kineas finally got up on his warhorse, embarrassed by looking like a new recruit in front of his men. The grass here grew in heavy tufts that formed small mounds and made walking nearly impossible and mounting even more difficult. Horses on the other hand seemed to walk easily among the tussocks. From a distance, the hilly plain stretched away to the hills beyond like a rippled green cloth, with no sign of the treacherous ground under the lush green grass.
Ataelus was one grassy rise away, and Kineas could see riders pursuing him a few stades back. They were small men on small horses. A few had bows, most had javelins, and none had armour. There were quite a few of them. Even as they watched, Ataelus changed direction, riding wide of Kineas’s troop and heading north beyond bowshot.
‘Diodorus! Take - take Ajax and support the Scyth. Get on their flank and harry them if they ignore you. The rest of you, knee to knee. Now! Two lines, and move!’
He had ten fighting men - a tiny number, but they had some advantages and the Scyth had brought the Getae in close. He thought that he’d have one chance to charge them and scatter them, force them into close action where his big, grain-fed military horses would overpower their ponies.
‘On me. Trot.’
The Getae were still coming on. At this distance they might just be seeing the armour, and the horse size would be hard to judge . . .
‘At them!’ Kineas had his horse in hand, was ready for the change to the long surge of the beast’s powerful hindquarters. He trusted the stallion to know how to gallop over the tussocks - if he misjudged, they’d be dead in a heartbeat. ‘Artemis!’ he cried, and the veterans took it up - Artemis, Artemis! It was a pale, thin remnant of the sound that three hundred of them had made, but loud enough.
The initial charge was going to be successful. He could feel it already in his balls, see the next act of the play as easily as if he had written it himself. He rose a little in his seat, pressed his horse’s sides with his knees and threw his light javelin into the side of a Getae. The next one pivoted his pony on its haunches, pulling her mouth viciously, but he was too slow, and Kineas’s warhorse rode the smaller horse over without changing gait. A boy - brave, or perhaps simply frozen - waited for him, sitting on his horse with his bow drawn. Kineas put his head down to take the point of the arrow on his helmet and leaned forward with his heavy javelin. The bow twanged, a singular sound even in the mêlèe.
The arrow missed - it went the gods knew where - and Kineas reversed his javelin in both hands and swung it like a staff, knocking the boy clear of the saddle. At the end of the stroke he reversed the staff again and turned his head. He drew rein, used his rein hand to push the helmet back on his head so that he could see and snapped his head right and left looking for friends and foes.
Niceas was right by him, mumbling a litany of prayers to Athena, his heavy javelin reversed and held short in his fist, dripping red on to the
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