The Caspian Gates wor-4

by Harry Sidebottom

  It was Corvus who had released them from their Sisyphus-like labours. The house of the eirenarch, on the other side of the Sacred Way, was in a block miraculously unscathed. Corvus straightaway had taken the remnants of Ballista’s familia into his own household. On the fifth evening of their fruitless digging, he had invoked his powers as head of the watch to order them not to return to the site of their former home. Ballista had seldom felt such simple gratitude to another man. Words could not touch it.

  A burst of lamplight shone out across the terrace. Just as suddenly, it was shut off as the door closed again. After a moment or two, the bulky figure of Corvus, stepping carefully, joined Ballista and Maximus. He leant by them on the parapet. In the silence, their eyes adjusted to the night. Out on the silver-black sea the lights of only two fishing boats were to be seen. They seemed to be returning to port. Above the pale moon and amid a myriad of other stars, the nine gems of Ariadne, the newly risen constellation of the Cnossian Crown, one of the harbingers of spring.

  Corvus spoke. ‘They say Electra ceased to shine in grief for Troy. Now there are only six Pleiades.’

  Maximus looked up. ‘But they do not rise until-’ Ballista, not unkindly, silenced his friend with a hand on his arm.

  Corvus seemed not to have noticed. ‘But others say the missing Pleiad is Merope, the wife of an oath-breaker, hiding herself in shame.’

  Corvus paused. The others did not speak.

  ‘Grief and shame,’ Corvus continued, ‘they go well together. The day before the earthquake, as eirenarch of the Metropolis of Ephesus, all I had to worry about was a couple of thefts and a missing girl. Her father was a potter. They lived out by the Magnesian Gate. By all accounts, she was a pretty thing, good natured, trusting. The neighbours suspected an old fraud of a fortune teller who had a hovel out there. I had my men tear his place apart. There was plenty of evidence of illegality – magic symbols, an alphabet board, some black chickens, a trench dug in one room, chicken shit all around it. But no sign of a missing girl. We gave him a beating. Nothing. He did not do it. The locals suspected him because of his trade, because he was not an Ephesian. He was Etruscan; the way those charlatans often are, or pretend to be, if they are not claiming to be Chaldaean. Gods below, I so wanted to find her. It was consuming me. She was five years old.’

  Again Corvus relapsed into silence. Ballista could see only one of the fishing boats coming into the harbour.

  ‘Just one small girl’ – Corvus’s thoughts continued on their path – ‘easy to lose in a city of a quarter of a million people. It seems a small thing now in a city where tens of thousands are dead or missing. But in a way I despise myself for thinking that. Can grief be quantified, measured by numbers?’

  Ballista had been watching the remaining fishing boat. Its light had disappeared. Now, a new, brighter light flared down on the quayside, off to the right. Half hidden by the Harbour Baths, it had to come from the market at the northern end of the harbour.

  ‘Would her parents have cared if the whole city had fallen, if all the stars had faded from the sky? Would their grief have been worse?’ Corvus was lost to his emotions.

  Another light down by the water. This time more central: an ominous glow.

  ‘What has happened – that girl, the earthquake, the lynchings?’ Corvus shook his head sadly. ‘If I were not already an Epicurean, I would become one, or turn to atheism. It would make anyone realize the gods are far away or do not exist.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus. ‘The Harbour Baths are on fire.’

  The flames could be seen clearly now, already clear of the high roofs, sawing in the wind.

  ‘Fuck.’ said Corvus. ‘The gods are far away.’

  The three men studied the scene in silence.

  ‘At least the breeze is offshore,’ Corvus eventually said. ‘It should not spread. I will get my men down there.’

  ‘No,’ Ballista said quietly. ‘It is too late for that.’

  Ballista was staring down, past the fire, past the central harbour gate, out by the jetties. The dark shapes, matt black against the glittering reflection of the flames in the water. His mind had gone back to the very first time he had sailed into Ephesus. Behind him, Maximus had been teasing young Demetrius; something about the gods. Always that, or sex. Ballista himself had not really been listening. He had been looking at the open harbour, the wealth on board the moored ships and stored along the quays. He had been looking at it through the eyes of his barbarian youth. Cut out one or two merchantmen, and go, but, if your fleet were big enough…

  The Harbour Baths were burning furiously now. Men were running past them, up the arrow-straight road that led to the heart of the town. Beyond, there was more than enough light to see the dark shapes out on the water, a vast number of them, a prow at both ends. Northern longships.

  ‘The Goths are here.’

  V

  Ballista had admired Corvus from the first. The eirenarch did not go down in his estimation now. He bore this latest disaster like a man. With no hint of panic, he surveyed the dark panorama, took his time, obviously thinking hard.

  ‘How many ships do you think?’ Corvus’s voice was steady.

  ‘At least fifty,’ Ballista replied.

  ‘I think more than fifty,’ Maximus said.

  ‘He is probably right. His eyes are good.’

  ‘How many men?’ Corvus asked.

  ‘A longboat carries at least thirty, the biggest up to a hundred.’ Ballista shrugged. ‘Say fifty to a ship.’

  ‘Two thousand five hundred.’ Corvus actually laughed. ‘Our soldiers are scattered, and outnumbered by at least ten to one. Well, that is the end of it.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Ballista failed to keep the special pleading out of his voice. ‘Get the citizens in the residential areas up on the roofs. A tile thrown by an old woman can kill as well as a soldier. All warriors hate fighting in such places.’

  Corvus laughed again. ‘Ballista, my friend, all these years, and you still do not understand us Hellenes. We are not like you northerners. It is not that we are cowards, as the Romans often say. But it has been centuries since war came to this city. The Ephesians would fight, but they would need some days to get used to the idea. No, it is over.’

  The eirenarch looked around in the gloom. Other than Maximus, there was no one in earshot. Corvus turned and held his arms out to embrace Ballista. The northerner did not move.

  ‘Ballista, go to the house. Collect my familia and yours. Leave the town by the Magnesian Gate. Collect animals from my villa on the road south. Go to Priene. It is on the side of a mountain, still has good walls; the safest town in Ionia. Ask for Marcus Aurelius Tatianus, son of Tatianus. He is my guest-friend. He will take care of you all.’

  Corvus stood, his arms still extended. Still Ballista did not move. ‘You can come with us.’

  Corvus shook his head. ‘You are not Ephesian. I am the eirenarch of this polis.’

  ‘Think of your wife, your daughters.’

  Corvus laughed yet again, seemingly with genuine amusement. ‘You mistake me, my friend. I do not intend to die here, unless the fates decide. I will fetch the governor. He has a few troops with him. We will see if we can defend a high place behind the palace. The Goths will be more interested in loot and rape than fighting trained men. If not, I will get Maximillianus to safety. Sooner or later, death comes to the coward as to the brave man.’

  Ballista stepped forward and was enfolded by Corvus’s arms. They kissed, on each cheek, the lips. ‘I will keep your family safe.’

  ‘I do not doubt it.’ Corvus stood back, and shook Maximus’s hand.

  In the dark, Ballista grinned. The barbarians might be inside the gates, but the social hierarchy of the imperium held. Maximus was a freedman.

  The path down from the palace was steep; to the right, a precipitous drop. Ballista and Maximus kept close to the wall on the left. The steps were wide, awkward to run down, ankle-jarring. Ballista called ahead to Maximus to sl
ow down. No point in risking a fall. ‘I do not want to carry you.’

  ‘I am not sure I could carry you, you fat fucker.’

  ‘Fuck you too. I am just not quite in fighting trim. Anyway, you should show your patronus more respect.’

  ‘Certainly: Patronus, you fat fucker.’

  When they reached the Sacred Way, it was eerily deserted. Momentarily, Ballista wondered if he and Maximus had run into a different reality – one in which the Goths had made a different choice, had sailed to another town. Every choice made opened up a different path. Could they all in some way exist in different places?

  Some figures ran round the corner from Marble Street. No steel in their hands. They were fleeing. Ballista and Maximus turned to their left and, holding their scabbards out so as not to tangle their legs, they ran. Past the Fountain of Trajan, its waters still and black. The Sacred Way climbed up. It drained the energy from their legs.

  Not far, and they swerved left into the alley. Narrow, steep; they pounded up its steps.

  The house, like all Mediterranean houses, showed a blank wall to the outside world. Ballista doubled up, panting hard. Maximus hammered on the big oak door with the pommel of his sword.

  The grating of the bolts and the bar, and Corvus’s porter swung back the door.

  Ballista straightened up. ‘Wake the household. Your dominus has ordered us to leave. Tell everyone to bring only what they can carry.’ The porter left. ‘Maximus, get our kit. Bring it to the atrium. I will get Julia and the boys.’

  It was dark in the bedroom. Julia turned in her sleep and muttered. Ballista gently put a hand on her shoulder. She twisted, alarmed in her sleep. He moved to the boys. Isangrim was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Ballista put his arm around him, spoke softly in Greek. ‘Isangrim, we must be men.’

  The ten-year-old looked back solemnly. ‘Let us be men.’ He was doing well learning Homer.

  Ballista looked at his younger son. Dernhelm was fast asleep, one hand straight above his head. In the big bed, Julia was stirring.

  Bringing his lips close to Isangrim’s ear, Ballista whispered in his native tongue: ‘We will be warriors.’ The boy beamed. Julia had not approved of her sons being taught a barbarian language, but Ballista knew the child saw it as a code, one shared with him by just his father, brother, Maximus and old Calgacus. Noisily jumping out of bed, Isangrim started hunting for his miniature sword. That woke Dernhelm. Ballista scooped him into his arms before he could cry, kissed the top of his head, smelt the warm small-child smell of him.

  Julia was sitting up. Ballista answered her unspoken question. ‘We are leaving. The Goths are in the city.’

  She took the news calmly. ‘Are there Borani among them?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Julia nodded, and got to her feet.

  Ballista passed Dernhelm to her. ‘As quickly as possible. Only bring essentials. Meet me in the atrium.’

  She nodded again, more peremptorily, as if his words were unnecessary. At times like this, Ballista thought, she was her old self: practical and assured. She had instantly remembered the bloodfeud between her husband and the Gothic tribe of the Borani.

  There was pandemonium in the atrium. Members of both familiae were rushing here and there, carrying some things, dragging others. They were getting in each other’s way, cursing loudly. In the middle of it all, seemingly perfectly at ease, Maximus stood with a mound of armour and weapons.

  As Ballista and Maximus helped each other to arm – shifting the weight of the mail, tying laces – Calgacus appeared. The Caledonian was fussing over Rebecca and Simon. Ballista told him to get armed. The words came out more brusquely than intended. It was natural that Calgacus was worried – everyone was worried. And if there were Borani among the Goths, it would make everything worse. Ballista had not sought the bloodfeud. But on that boat, all those years ago, the Borani would not surrender. Ballista had not sought it, but it was real. Bloodfeuds had always been a reality in a northern warrior’s life. If the Borani discovered Ballista was here, they would try to kill him. Of course, that would not end it. If they lived, Isangrim and Dernhelm would inherit the feud when they grew to manhood.

  ‘Stop snivelling.’ The voice of Corvus’s wife, Nikeso, cut across the din. Nikeso was a tall woman. She was making her way, stately through the confusion. The daughter spoken to dabbed her eyes. The other two huddled behind, cowed.

  ‘ Kyria,’ said Ballista.

  ‘ Kyrios.’ Nikeso was collected. ‘My husband says we are to go with you.’ It was only notionally a question.

  ‘Yes, the Goths are in the city. I am to escort you to Priene.’

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘We must go on foot until we reach your suburban villa. There will not be enough animals and carts there. We will try to find more on the road.’

  Nikeso turned to one of her slaves. ‘Put all that stuff down. Make sure you have your kyrios’s strongbox and my jewellery. And bring out all the weapons in the house, the hunting ones and the heirlooms. The Vir Ementissimus Marcus Clodius Ballista will distribute them. Leave everything else.’

  Waiting, Ballista half-drew his weapons – first the dagger, next the sword – then snapped them back in their sheaths. He touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard of his sword. He was completely unaware of what his hands did. He was wondering if he should have told Corvus about his bloodfeud with the Borani.

  Julia and the boys came out.

  ‘Is everyone here?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia.

  ‘One of Corvus’s boys is absent.’ Nikeso spoke with no obvious emotion, but a woman sobbed among the familia behind her.

  ‘Where is he?’ Ballista addressed the crying slave woman.

  ‘I do not know, Kyrios.’ She fell to her knees, arms outstretched: the classic pose of a suppliant. ‘ Kyrios, he is my son. He is just a boy.’

  Ballista was silent, thinking.

  ‘We cannot wait.’ Nikeso’s voice was flat.

  Ballista nodded. He raised up the slave woman. ‘He will be fine. It is a big city. The Goths will not be everywhere.’

  There were thirteen in the familia of Ballista, just four of them fighting men: Maximus, Calgacus, Hippothous, and Ballista himself, already armed. The familia of Corvus was larger – twenty-two in all. Two members of the watch lived with his household. These diogmitai had their big, wooden clubs. Ballista told them to take any other weapons they wanted from the pile. Five of the male slaves, including the porter, looked capable of bearing arms. Ballista told them also to select the weapons that suited them. If they did well tonight, their kyrios would hear of it, and he might give them their freedom.

  Ballista got them all into some sort of order. Hippothous would lead. The five armed slaves would keep the women and children together. Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus, with the two diogmitai, would bring up the rear. If anyone got separated, they were to go out of the Magnesian Gate and make their way to the villa of Corvus just south of town, then over the mountains to Priene. Ballista told them this twice, slowly, trying to make it stick despite the darkness and the fear.

  Through the door, they shuffled down the alley and turned left up the Sacred Way. There were people there now; running, jostling. A man ran into Maximus, who casually punched him to the ground.

  Keeping moving, Ballista glanced back over his shoulder, down towards the library of Celsus. Most of those in sight were Ephesians – darting here and there in their terror, like animals before a bush fire. But beyond them, not far from the temple of Hadrian, were men with steel in their hands. Some of the Goths were turning aside to loot, but the majority were pressing purposefully up the hill. They must have heard about the wealth to be found in the temples and public buildings situated around the civic agora which lay between Ballista’s party and the Magnesian Gate. Someone must have told them. There had been stories of locals going over to the Goths. A persistent rumour spoke of a Greek called Chrysogonus, a leading man from one of th
e cities up towards the Black Sea, throwing his lot in with the pirates, guiding them on their raids. It was said he had led the Goths to the sack of Nicomedia a few years earlier.

  Ballista stumbled; the pavement was uneven. He could see the backs of the crowd ahead. He felt a surge of fear until he saw the heads of his sons. The rag-tag column was moving too slowly. The Goths would overhaul them before the civic agora. There was no point in urging more speed; it would just cause panic, further delay. There was nothing else for it: the Goths would somehow have to be delayed. They would have to be faced.

  Not far, and the path bent to the right. It was narrow there, further straitened by the fallen statues and drums of columns which had been dragged to the sides. The part-ruined monument of Memmius jutted into the road on one side. There was a fine fig tree on the other. The distance between them could be held by four determined men side by side. Ballista shouted for Maximus to push his way through to Hippothous. Have the column halted just beyond the monument. Make sure Hippothous kept them together. Get back down here.

  Ballista positioned himself, Calgacus and the two diogmitai across the path. He was fighting to control his breathing. Maximus was right: he had been living too easy. Having checked that the familiae were shepherded together where he wanted them, Ballista drew his sword and hefted his shield. He was the right-hand man, hard up against the big ashlar blocks of the base of the monument. Calgacus was to his left, the two diogmitai beyond that. Maximus reappeared. The Hibernian took his accustomed place at Ballista’s left shoulder. Calgacus shuffled over. The end one of the diogmitai dropped out of the line. Ballista shouted at him to hold himself ready to replace anyone who fell. The man of the watch waved his agreement, his demeanour less than enthusiastic.

  The Goths were still a distance away. Ballista used the time to make sure of his bearings. To the right was the monument of Memmius. The earthquake had done it no good. Of the upper storeys, only a few isolated columns and fragments of masonry remained. The lower two storeys were heavily damaged; much of the sculpture had crashed from the walls, and truncated caryatids were left hanging, legless and deformed. The thing was a ruin, but it guarded his right. To the left of his men was the fig tree, up against a wall. No way round there. Hold the line, and they would be safe. Far off to the left, across a square and above a big imperial temple, Ballista could see the dark bulk of the mountain, its safety very far away. If the line broke, they would all die.