Montanus made a libation, calling on Zeus the Saviour, Apollo Prostates, Achilles Pontarches and Hecate the dark goddess to hold their hands over the city in this the two hundred and eighteenth year of its Roman era.
Ballista noticed Montanus neatly tipped the wine offered to the gods not on to his mosaic floor but into the flowerbed. It saved any mess, and presumably the deities did not care where it landed.
Tables were placed close to hand and the slaves brought out the first course. The inevitable eggs were soft-boiled with a sauce of pine kernels. There was a salad of lettuce and rocket. The main dish of the course was grilled carp.
An older male slave mixed and poured out a tawny wine.
‘A Lesbian,’ said Montanus.
‘The wine or him?’ Maximus laughed.
Montanus looked disapproving — although Ballista was uncertain whether this was a result of the implication of oral sex or at the temerity of a freedman speaking out.
‘He does not look like a cocksucker’ — Castricius addressed Maximus — ‘and being a Lesbian is no worse than being a Phoenician, and I am sure you have been down on more than a few women in your time.’
This was not playing well with the Olbians. Montanus looked more than ever like the bust of some stern old Roman from the days of the free Republic — Cato the Censor, or whoever, returned to upbraid modern frivolity and loose ways.
Ballista took a long pull at his drink. He was tempted to dismiss the censoriousness as backwoods prudishness. But had his familia been irrevocably coarsened by all the years in the army, or by the last two years among extraordinary barbarians? What did the Olbians think of them? Castricius would be none too unsettling, unless, as now, he was speaking in the language of the barracks, and provided they did not know that in his youth he had been condemned to the mines. But the rest of them were a different story: a Hibernian ex-slave with the end of his nose missing, a tribesman from the High Caucasus who mangled both Greek and Latin, often in the same sentence, and himself, a big northern barbarian with a veneer of civilization. Then — in one of those instantaneous flashes of insight — he knew that all that was only a minor part of the unease they created. How many men had they killed between them? Killing changes a man. It does something to the eyes. It was not always the same thing. Ballista had seen killers with eyes like cats in the sun, others with eyes like flat pebbles under water. He had no idea what his own eyes betrayed.
‘The wine is good, both hot and dry on the palate.’ Ballista spoke merely to move the talk on to less uncomfortable ground.
Montanus inclined his head at the compliment. ‘You may not be familiar with the fish. It is only found in our northern rivers.’
Ballista laughed. ‘And in the rivers further north of my youth.’
Montanus looked vaguely put out, more at Ballista’s origins than any lack of tact on his own part.
‘I read somewhere that carp are neither male nor female.’ Castricius now spoke smoothly, in formal Attic Greek, no longer the rough soldier but the man of paideia.
‘Indeed.’ Montanus recovered enough to sketch a smile. ‘They become so when in captivity. My own fish tanks are on the other side of the river.’
Conversation for a time became general on the subject of fish: the catching and keeping of, those good to eat, those less so, and the positively harmful varieties.
Bion, the young deputy strategos, cleared his throat. ‘May I be so bold as to ask our honoured guest to tell us of his victories over the Persians? An opportunity to hear how you made the Persian king flee the field at the battle of Soli is not to be passed up.’
Ballista had no wish to talk about Soli, or the subsequent fight at Sebaste. He remembered little of them. It had been a bad time. He had been near out of his mind, believing his wife and sons dead.
‘There was not much to them.’ Ballista said no more.
The somewhat strained silence was broken by Callistratus. ‘I wonder if we could prevail on you to put aside your becoming modesty and tell us instead how you saved Miletus from the Goths. It is a subject dear to our hearts. Miletus was mother city to Olbia, and many of us have connections there. I myself have the honour of being guest-friend of Macarius, the stephanephor of that great polis.’
That was a happier time, and Ballista acceded to the request. Apart from the Goths’ lack of skill at siege works and the undoubted courage of those serving under him — Macarius notable among them — Ballista put it down to managing to cause panic among the attackers. The unexpected will often bring this about, and two stratagems had worked at Miletus: hidden stakes which the Gothic ships ran on to in the two harbours, and two hastily constructed siege engines unexpectedly raining down inflammable missiles. It was a carefully edited account, which omitted the underhand — if not treacherous — killing of the Tervingi leader Tharuaro.
The uncomfortable memory of his Loki-like trick made Ballista’s final words less diplomatic than they might have been. ‘Looking at the defences coming here, I was wondering how Olbia fell to the Goths.’
The brusque change of subject, on to what obviously was a delicate topic, seemed to instil a certain embarrassment among the Olbians. First Montanus, then Callistratus sought to remove their fathers from any blame. Both had been away. They had been campaigning across the estuary on Hylaea. Most of the fighting men of Olbia had been with them, the fathers of Dadag and Saitaphernes among them. The grandfather of Bion had been in Athens. A band of Goths had sacked the sanctuary of Hecate. It had been a cunning ruse to draw the militia out of the city. Olbia had been retaken almost at once.
To everyone’s relief, the servants brought in the main course.
‘Spring lamb, roast in the Parthian style,’ Montanus announced. ‘My grandfather served in the eastern wars of the divine Septimius Severus.’
As host, Montanus clearly thought it right he should hold centre stage, and guide the conversation back to where it reflected his family in a better light. Ballista was happy enough for it to be so. In this vein, he asked how they had become landowners and councillors in Olbia.
‘My grandfather was a centurion with the XI Claudia. He was posted here after the Parthian wars. When those with the eagles were allowed to marry, he took to wife a woman of good local family.’
As Montanus’s family history unrolled, Ballista enjoyed the lamb. It was in a pepper and onion sauce with damsons. There were peas in cumin, too, one of his favourites.
The peace of the afternoon was broken by noises from the other side of the courtyard. A man in armour burst from the passageway. He sought out Montanus.
‘Strategos, the barbarians are in the old town!’
VII
Olbia
After his Lesbian joke fell flat, Maximus concentrated on eating. The lamb was good, and the unfortunately named wine had been replaced with a local vintage. The drink tasted of elderberry, but Maximus had got used to that. Montanus, the local pretend general, was droning on about his family.
Maximus was not listening, his thoughts wandering with no idea of a destination. It was good they grew hemp here. He had grown to like inhaling cannabis the previous year out on the Steppe. He had missed it during the winter in Byzantium. There had to be a better way of smoking it than putting it between two knives, and you could not be building a tent every time like the nomads did.
Montanus appeared to be listing every individual who had ever been related to him by blood or marriage; and fine people they were in the telling. There was something about this meal that reminded Maximus of another occasion in another backwater, the town of Priene in the province of Asia. They had left that place to go to fight at Miletus. They had left Calgacus behind with Ballista’s wife and sons in Priene. Maximus was surprised how much he missed the ugly old Caledonian. While he had been alive, Maximus supposed he had been fond of him — although not as fond as he would have been of a good hunting dog. But now it was different. In many ways, Maximus thought it would have been better if he had been the one kille
d. Calgacus had left the Jewish woman Rebecca and the small boy Simon. The old bastard had loved her, loved the slave boy like a son. It had seemed returned. There was nothing like that in Maximus’s life. He must be getting old: he had begun to wish there was.
A man in armour was jabbering at Montanus. Everyone was scrambling off their couches. Shite, the Goths were in the old town.
Maximus hauled on his boots, then buckled on his sword belt as he bundled up the stairs after Ballista. From the roof you could see for miles. The house of the strategos was well chosen. To the west, beyond the ravine, the land rolled off into the distance, green and peaceful. Below, to the east, the river glinted through a veil of smoke. And, to the north, the remains of the old town stretched away. Maximus had good eyes. He saw the grey column of infantry skirting a still-standing tower, pressing on south down what had been the main street, towards the ancient agora.
‘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.
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