The Amber Road (12 page)

‘Hoist the signal for an attack.’ Montanus sounded controlled. Maybe he was less of a joke commander than Maximus had judged him.

‘Bion, get down and bar the northern gate. Make sure the bowmen are well spread along the wall. Callistratus, would you take your station down in the port. Dadag, assemble the reserve by the citadel gate; keep it open unless I give the order. Saitaphernes, keep a close watch from the acropolis walls. I will remain here. Let us remember our courage. Let us be men.’

‘
Strategos
,’ Ballista spoke urgently, ‘my men are in the
agora
. If Bion shuts the gate, they will be trapped outside.’

‘I am sorry, it cannot be helped.’

‘There are nearly thirty fighting men out there – too many to sacrifice.’

‘We cannot put the town at risk. There is no help for it.’

‘Then we will go to them,’ said Ballista. ‘If we return, and are not hard pressed, have Bion open the gate.’

Montanus looked at Callistratus, who nodded. ‘It will be as you wish,’ Montanus said, ‘but if the Goths are on your heels, you will have to take your chances.’

They turned to go.

‘Wait,’ said Montanus. ‘There is a postern into the acropolis, the second tower on the west face, overlooking the ravine. Saitaphernes will tell the guards to watch. But if the Goths …’ There was no point in him finishing.

Maximus ran down the stairs after Ballista. By the time he reached the street, he was out of breath: too much soft living. They pounded after Bion, under the great arch, over the bridge, between the crammed-together buildings. There were many in the streets, but to give the Olbians their due, there was little panic. Militia men ran to their posts – pulling on their arms as they went – women herded children and animals inside. Living surrounded by enemies taught a hard lesson.

At the gate Bion shouted orders, sending men up and along the wall walk. Maximus doubled over, panting; Ballista and Castricius likewise. Tarchon seemed in better condition. The Suanian was just a little younger. Gods, but Maximus was getting too old for this shite.

Ballista used Maximus to haul himself upright. ‘Bion, would you get ropes?’

‘Ropes?’

Ballista drew a couple of deep breaths, got the words out. ‘If you have had to shut the gates, you might haul some of my men to safety. My
familia
can hold the Goths off for a time.’

‘Where would –’

‘The docks – use ship’s cables, anything.’

The young officer smiled. ‘I will see to it. You had better go. I am going to shut the gate.’

Outside, a boy was driving a herd of goats towards the town.

‘Leave them,’ Bion called. ‘Run!’

The boy hesitated. He was a slave, and his owner would beat him if he lost the goats.

‘Now!’

The boy sprinted past Maximus, sandals pattering on the road.

The gate slammed shut. The sound of the bar being dropped.

‘Time to go,’ said Ballista. They set off through the unconcerned goats.

As ill luck would have it, at that moment a family – a man and woman, two children – emerged from the ruins. They saw the shut gate and began to wail.

Maximus paused.

‘Come on.’ Ballista called over his shoulder. He was right. Maximus knew there was nothing they could do. Holding his scabbard out to avoid it tangling in his legs, he jogged off after the other three.

Running in the hot sun, a mailshirt dragging at your shoulders, a good meal and plenty of wine inside you, was never good. Castricius especially was suffering. Maximus had his breathing more under control. He overtook the little Roman.

More Olbians, caught out by the suddenness of the barbarian descent, appeared in the narrow path. Swerving around them, Maximus hoped Bion would exercise mercy, or that they would make it to the postern.

A largish body of men were fleeing down towards them. The crew of the
Fides
. They ran pell-mell, in no form of order.

‘Halt!’ Years of command had given authority to Ballista’s voice.

They faltered, and stopped. Eighteen of them. They had thrown away the heavy wooden training weaponry. Maximus noted they had their real blades at their belts. No one had a shield or helmet. There was no sign of the
optio
Diocles or the others.

‘Form columns of fours,’ ordered Ballista. Most began to obey, until a large, shaven-headed soldier at the front gestured them to stop. Maximus knew him – Heliodorus, an Egyptian, particular friend of the two killed in the bar.

‘Disobeying an order is mutiny. You know the penalty for mutiny,’ said Ballista.

‘Fuck you.’ Heliodorus turned to the others and spoke in the Latin of the ranks. ‘Are we going to take this from this prick?’

‘The penalty is death,’ said Ballista.

‘This is our chance, boys; no one will know.’ Heliodorus drew his sword.

Maximus found his
gladius
in his hand.

‘Come on,
pueri
,’ said Heliodorus. ‘We can finish this here. There are only four of the cunts.’ Five or six also drew their weapons. The others stood, hesitant.

The path was narrowed by rubble. There was only space for two men to wield their swords with any effect. Maximus moved up on Ballista’s left shoulder. Castricius and Tarchon fell back a pace or two. They might be only four, but, unlike the mutineers, they wore mail. And, unlike the mutineers, they were all proven close to the steel.

In a fighting crouch, Maximus watched his opponent. Heliodorus faced Ballista. As ever, Maximus’s chest felt tight and hollow at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus saw Heliodorus lunge. He heard the ring of steel as Ballista blocked.

The man in front of Maximus came on, half turned,
spatha
held high.

Again the clash of steel to his right. The soldier in front was working himself up to strike.

‘Do not kill him,’ Ballista shouted over the noise.

Maximus’s opponent cut to the head. Maximus took the blow on his
gladius
, rolled it over his head and thrust. At the last moment he remembered Ballista’s instruction and pushed his strike wide. The man swung his sword back. Maximus had to scramble backwards. The edge hissed in front of his face.

Maximus regained his balance. This was all wrong. Only a fool fought and tried not to kill. It was unnatural, far from easy, just asking to get yourself struck down.

More clashes of steel on steel to the right – one, two, three, in quick succession.

The mutineer came in again, swung fast from left and right. A flurry of blows. Maximus parried them with precision. There was an opening each time. Maximus fought down his instinct to finish it. The battle calm was on him, the strange altered state where things moved slowly, where he had all the time in the world, where he could see the fight two or three blows ahead. He was laughing. Gods, but he knew himself to be a dangerous bastard.

The mutineer stepped back, breathing hard. Maximus risked a glance around. Some of the others were clambering over the debris on either side. He put them out of his mind. Castricius and Tarchon would deal with them. Most still stood, rooted to the spot.

The soldier feinted a low cut to the left ankle, withdrew and thrust at Maximus’s chest. That was enough. Two-handed, Maximus forced the
spatha
to his left, stepped inside, brought his right elbow up and rammed it into the mutineer’s face. A satisfying crunch as the nose broke. Maximus cracked the flat of his blade down on the wrist of his opponent’s sword hand. The
spatha
clattered to the ground. He swung the pommel up and smashed it into the man’s temple. He collapsed like a sacrificial animal. Stepping back, to avoid tripping over him, Maximus flicked the point of his sword up and out.

Heliodorus was also down, flat on his back, semi-conscious. Ballista stood over him, tip of the blade at his throat.

‘Four of you pick them up. The rest form columns of fours.’ Ballista’s voice was calm, as if arranging some trivial point of detail.

As the troops shuffled to obey, Diocles arrived at the head of the remaining ten.

‘All well?’ Diocles asked.

‘All well,’ Ballista replied.

The men fell in.

‘Ready to march?’ There was little of a question in Ballista’s words.

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The ritual response came back almost with an air of relief.

‘The Goths are not here yet,’ Ballista said. ‘All should be well. Let us go.’

Back in safety, up on the roof of the house of the
strategos
, Ballista thought it could all have gone a great deal worse. The Goths had not come up with them during the retreat. Bion had opened the gate and let them into the town. Heliodorus and the other mutineer who had fought were now in chains in a cellar, and Diocles had most of the rest of the crew of the
Fides
at ease waiting in the street below. One
contubernium
had been sent to the docks to fetch the centurion Regulus and those who had been working on the ship, as well as to carry up all the shields and javelins.

From this point of vantage, it was obvious to what they owed their escape. While the Goths now had a force watching the town gate from well out of bowshot, and, judging by a concentration of standards and men, their leaders had established themselves on and around a large
kurgan
beyond the
agora
, most of the raiders were spread through the remains of the old town, looting whatever granaries, smithies and the like were to be found. Given the circumstances, Gothic numbers were difficult to estimate. However, Ballista judged it a substantial war band – maybe about three thousand warriors.

Montanus was explaining the dispositions of the defenders. There were just under a thousand men under arms in the city: five hundred along the north wall, two hundred down at the docks, one hundred watching the acropolis, and the final two hundred acting as a reserve. The numbers were not exact. All had bow, sword and shield. About one in five had armour; all of those and quite a few more also possessed a helmet. While by no means first-rate troops – indeed, many were youths or old men – the exigencies of frontier life did mean that almost all would at least have witnessed combat.

Lost in thought, Ballista did not respond.

‘Now we know why the Castle of Achilles upriver was deserted.’ Montanus smiled ruefully. ‘Also it explains why Gunteric, Chief of the Tervingi, did not appear to demand the usual tribute.’

Still Ballista said nothing.

‘Perhaps the Goths had something to do with the slaves who are infecting Hylaea. In our fathers’ time the city fell because the militia had been lured there.’

‘Artillery?’ Ballista asked.

‘I am afraid not,’ said Montanus. ‘There is nothing behind the ports in the acropolis. When Gallus withdrew the troops, it went with them.’

‘Horses?’

‘Some two hundred of the militia can serve as cavalry.’

‘I did not see any war galleys at the docks.’

Montanus shrugged. ‘There are two. They have gone to watch the slaves on Hylaea. We can send a boat to recall them. But they are small; no more than fifty oarsmen on each.’

‘Nevertheless, it should be done.’ Ballista looked away across the broad river. ‘Can your other settlements raise a relief force?’

‘No.’

‘There are wells in the town?’

‘Yes, and in the citadel.’

‘That is good. What of provisions? Zeno told me you were short of grain.’

‘If the rich open their own reserves to the
polis
– and they will – we should have enough for five or six weeks; more with careful rationing.’

Ballista looked north to where he had been training his men. ‘There was a granary by the abandoned
agora
. How much grain will the Goths have taken?’

‘It is hard to say. There are other storehouses in the old town. Several of the members of the
Boule
prefer to keep their stores out there – less risk of fire.’

Less accountable in times of need, Ballista thought.

Callistratus politely, but firmly, spoke up. ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, you saved Miletus and Didyma from the Goths, Tervingi among them. What will they do?’

Ballista knuckled his eyes tiredly. ‘I served under Gallus, before he was emperor, when he defended Novae. The Goths used rams, towers, ramps, even some artillery. They tried mining. It was believed Roman deserters taught them. They can do siege works, but they prefer other ways. They say they have no quarrel with stone walls. Unless they bring up boats and blockade the river, they cannot starve you out. Are there any within the town who might open the gates to them?’

‘Never,’ said Callistratus. ‘Everyone knows the horror of the last sack.’

‘Then it depends how badly they want what is in the town.’

At Ballista’s words, Maximus looked sharply at him.

‘Most likely tomorrow or the following day, they will assault the north wall.’

The Olbians stirred uneasily. ‘What should we do?’ Callistratus asked.

Ballista did not answer at once. He gazed in different directions, thinking hard; reckoning distances and lines of sight, estimating times and probabilities, weighing so many variables.

‘
Dominus
.’

The voice broke Ballista’s concentration. He turned, irritated.

‘
Dominus
.’ It was Diocles. ‘Centurion Regulus and the
contubernium
with him at the quayside have taken the
Fides
. They have gone.’

For a moment Ballista had no idea what Diocles was talking about. When he realized, he was neither surprised or upset. In some ways, it might be for the best.

‘He has deserted.’ Diocles was outraged.

‘He might have his reasons,’ Ballista said. ‘
Optio
Diocles, by the authority invested in me by the
mandata
of the Augustus Gallienus, I appoint you centurion.’

Diocles snapped a salute. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

‘What should we do?’ Callistratus failed to keep the edge of desperation out of his voice. ‘We are outnumbered five or six to one.’