Seeing the men standing across the way, the Goths pulled up about twenty paces short. In the gloom, it was impossible to judge their numbers. They were a dark phalanx, backlit by torches and more distant fires. Swords glittered in their hands; the curved outlines of shields glinted. Some of the Goths wore helmets. The raking torchlight made deep, crazed shadows in the empty pavement. Ballista noted it. The earthquake had lifted and moved the broad slabs of the road.
‘Watch your footing,’ Ballista said softly. Maximus repeated it. So did Calgacus. Ballista smiled. They had spoken in his native language. It would mean nothing to the diotigmai.
‘Come on, girls,’ called Maximus. ‘Do you want to dance, you arse-fucking cunts?’
A babble of voices. Their attention caught by the use of a dialect of their own language, the Goths all called out: a jumble of threats, boasts, questions, less certain things. An individual stepped forward. The orange-red light swam over his mailed shoulders, the steel of his helmet, the blade in his hand. His face was shadowed. His helmet was adorned with the skull of a small, fanged animal. He held up his hand, and the noise dropped.
‘I am Tharuaro, son of Gunteric. I lead the Tervingi longboats in this Gothic expedition. Who are you?’
Maximus filled his lungs but, before he could answer, Ballista restrained him.
‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim of the Angles. The Romans know me as Ballista.’
A deep muttering – hoom, hoom – came from the Goths: recognition, maybe grudging respect, but no warmth.
‘The man who was king of the Romans for a day,’ Tharuaro shouted. ‘We know you. It is lucky for you we are here. There are two crews of Borani with the fleet. They would want to eat your heart raw. But we Tervingi have no particular desire to kill you. Now, stand aside. My men have been at sea for three days, they want what they have come for.’
Ballista did not speak at once. A bat flitted between them. ‘Will you give safe passage to those with me? All of them – men, women and children?’ The bat banked back, hunting. ‘And the things we carry?’
Tharuaro snorted. ‘You are trading from a bad position, Angle.’
‘Will you take an oath to your high gods Teiws and Fairguneis?’
‘We will let those with you go unmolested. But we will take your weapons and your goods.’
‘No.’
‘Like all your people, you are a fool. Lay down your swords.’
‘No.’
‘I see five of you. There are thirty or more of us.’
‘But here only four can fight.’
Tharuaro spoke no more words to Ballista. The Gothic reiks turned his back, conferring with his men.
‘They would kill us anyway,’ Maximus said quietly. ‘Easier if we are disarmed. Fuck them.’
The Goths milled, sorting themselves out. Ballista wondered how they would go about it. If they advanced in a wedge – the boar’s snout of the north – even uphill their momentum would certainly smash through a line only one deep. But the road surface was deeply pitted, treacherous. If one man tripped, the close-packed ranks of the boar’s snout would pile up in chaos. They might find themselves sprawling at the feet of Ballista’s men. Then it would be like killing netted fish. Like killing tuna – fish that bled a lot.
Maximus’s gladius flashed as he tossed the short sword from hand to hand. Under his breath, he was singing in Latin, a Roman marching song: ‘Thousand, thousand, thousand we’ve beheaded now. One man, a thousand we’ve beheaded now. A thousand drinks, a thousand killed. So much wine no one has as the blood that he has spilt.’
Four Goths emerged from the ranks. Tharuaro was no fool. He had seen the danger posed by the road. It would be man to man.
Tharuaro had taken his place opposite Ballista. The next Goth was festooned with bracelets and necklaces, obscure amulets braided into his hair: he must be one of their priests. This gudja would face Maximus. The other two were proven warriors. Mail-coated, their arms shone with the golden rings Tharuaro or some other reiks had given them.
The Goths advanced at a walk, evenly spaced, room to use their weapons. They rolled their shoulders, flexed their necks, made passes with their blades. They moved workmanlike, a ploughman going to his team. They had done this many times before.
Ballista got into a fighting crouch: left leg forward, shield held well out, sword back and raised, the leather thong from the hilt over his wrist. He checked the paving around his feet. The stones were mainly smooth, their surfaces very shiny. A couple of paces in front, one was cracked and tilted; another just behind his right foot stuck up, uneven. He found he was muttering a prayer: Allfather, Death-blinder, Spear-thruster…
Three paces out, the Goths roared and lunged forward. Ballista’s world shrank to the few feet that enclosed him and his enemy. Tharuaro swung down a blow to the neck. Ballista hunkered down behind his shield. A sudden step, Tharuaro slid to his right knee, his blade now singing below Ballista’s guard, towards his left leg. Hurriedly, Ballista got the shield down. The impact jarred up his arm. Splinters of wood flew. Ballista brought his right wrist over, thrust at his opponent’s face. Tharuaro took the edge of the blade on the rim of his shield, forced it up.
Surging to his feet, the Goth slammed his shield-boss into Ballista’s body. Ballista’s heel caught on the uneven pavement and he staggered back, winded. Arms wide, he floundered to regain his balance. Tharuaro thrust savagely into his chest. Ballista twisted convulsively, the point of the blade punched home. A hammer blow – white, burning pain – it broke some of the close-forged metal rings, driving them into the flesh. The point snagged, then slid off across the surface of the mail coat. Tharuaro was within Ballista’s shield. Fighting for breath, the Angle let go of his shield-grip and used his left arm to draw the man in; with his right he smashed the pommel of his sword into the bearded face. A metallic snap as the nasal on the Goth’s helmet broke. A softer, more sickening sound as his nose shattered. A grunt of pain. The scent of blood.
They were wedged together, Tharuaro’s sword arm trapped between their bodies, Ballista’s uselessly high in the air, their breathing hot in each other’s face. The Goth reacted first. A kick to the right shin and Tharuaro dropped his shield and crunched the heel of his left hand into Ballista’s chin.
As Ballista staggered back again, the other warrior used the time to scoop up his shield. The northerner, shieldless, got into a low crouch, sword two-handed out in front.
Gasping, they eyed each other, motionless in the guttering light, time not moving. Next to them, the clang of steel on steel, the stamp of booted feet, the rasping breaths of frightened men fighting for their lives.
Tharuaro spat. The blood was black in the gloom. His eyes flicked away across the road. Ballista’s eyes never left the Goth’s blade. Tharuaro laughed.
Ballista feinted forward, winning time to glance to his left. Maximus and Calgacus were still there. But one of the diogmitai was down; head half severed, dark blood coursing over the road, the slabs slick with it. The other was being driven back. A blur of blows from the Goth. The despairing defence of the man of the watch would only end one way, and at any moment.
Ballista gave all his attention back to the reiks facing him.
‘The dance is nearly over, Angle.’ Tharuaro’s front teeth were gone. Ropes of bloody spittle hung in his beard. Ballista knew in his heart the Goth was right. When, any moment now, the second of the diogmitai was downed, Calgacus, who was still trading blows with his man, would find himself outflanked, fighting two to one.
Maximus and the gudja had drawn apart. The Gothic priest’s shield was gone, the mail on his left arm broken, a great gash showing through. A warrior behind him called for him to let a fresh man take his place. The gudja did not deign to reply.
‘Thousand, thousand, thousand…’
The demented Hibernian was still singing; breathless, the lyrics staccato, but still singing.
Maybe, thought Ballista, one last, united effort from the three of them. Be
tter that than nothing. Call to Hippothous to get the combined familia moving towards the gate. Should have told them to keep moving from the start. But in the chaos of a sacked city, one fighting man and a few slaves cannot hope to guard about thirty women and children. Too late for regrets. Allfather, look to my boys. Let them join me in Valhalla – not now, not soon. Now, we will try to buy them just a little time. Get the only other fighting man down here.
‘Hippothous!’ Ballista shouted.
Ballista was drowned out by a choking scream from his left. He pretended to cut at Tharuaro’s head; flicked a look across the road. The last of the diogmitai was still on his feet. His hands were holding the long, grey ropes of his own intestines. Hopelessly, he was attempting to force them back into the slit in his stomach.
‘Hippothous!’
With precision, the Gothic warrior chopped a leg from under the wounded man. Once the watch man was on all fours, two heavy blows to the back of the head sufficed.
The other six combatants, out of the corner of their eyes, watched as if the gruesome tragedy of a saga were being acted out.
The Goth flicked the blood from his sword, turned inwards. Without words, Calgacus, Maximus and Ballista stepped back, rearranging themselves in a half-circle, back against the high base of the monument.
The Goth jerked around, swinging his sword up the hill. Too late. It was smashed out of his grip; went ringing against the far wall. Another blow and he reeled back, clutching his right shoulder. Hippothous lunged. The Goth leapt back. His feet slipped on the blood-slick stones. He went down, hard. On his arse, boots finding little purchase, he scrabbled towards his comrades.
Hippothous came forward. Calgacus, Maximus and Ballista fanned out to join him. The line was re-established; the road blocked again.
‘You were right, Tharuaro. The dance should end.’ Ballista spoke quietly. ‘You said you have no particular desire to kill me or my men. You and your Tervingi came for treasures, for women. There are many of both in the street behind you. Take them. There are many more in the civic agora behind us. In a little while, we will be gone, the way open to you.’
‘The Borani will be glad we have not killed you, Angle.’ Tharuaro looked at the gudja, as if seeking his approval for words not yet spoken. ‘There is no bloodfeud between the Tervingi and you. It is not a matter of honour. Go now – quickly.’
Ballista told Calgacus to lead the familia. When they were moving, Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous turned and began to trudge up the hill.
The Goths watched them go, hard eyed, their thoughts unknowable.
VI
Gallienus walked out into the walled garden. Even here, in the wilds of Thrace, well to the north-west of Byzantium, the plants seemed to apprehend that spring was approaching. Gallienus yawned, stretched and took in the view. The sun was warm on his back. It was a rare luxury for an emperor to be alone. It had been a tiring time.
The imperial comitatus had remained in Byzantium for three days after the city had surrendered. It had been three hectic days of smoothing the return of the city to imperial allegiance, of reassuring the surviving councillors that there would be no further reprisals, of convincing the leading men, Cleodamus and Athenaeus, that their industry in the defence of the town and their loyalty to the Macriani, terribly misguided though it had been, would bring them not punishment but advancement.
The confiscation of the estates of the twenty executed councillors had also demanded close attention. The influx of wealth had proved timely. Two days before the comitatus left, news had come of the earthquake that had hit Ephesus. An emperor was nothing if he was not open-handed. The property of the condemned was sold, the proceeds to be sent to the devastated city. As ever, the emperor took with one hand and gave with the other.
There had been a disquieting rumour of an unusual concentration of Gothic pirates in the Aegean, but it could not be helped. Far more pressing issues called for the presence of the emperor in the west.
The comitatus, consisting of just high officials and the cavalry of the guard, had made good time. They had spent the second night in the city of Perinthus. From there, they had struck inland, riding fast through the rich farmland of the campus serenus. On the fourth evening, they had reached the small town of Bergoule and Gallienus had called for a day’s halt to rest the horses.
This morning, the one before the ides of March, had brought Gallienus no respite. First, at dawn, there had been a solemn sacrifice to celebrate this day forty years before, when the divine Aurelius Alexander Severus had been named Augustus and accepted the titles of Pater Patriae and Pontifex Maximus: to the divine Alexander an ox. Gallienus half remembered Alexander Severus. Although Gallienus had still been a child, had not yet been given the toga virilis, by the end of that reign he had already been at the imperial court, a hostage for the good behaviour of his father. In his memories, Alexander was a weak-looking young man, too reliant on both the senate and his mother. It was said that when the mutineers, led by Maximinus Thrax, had burst into the imperial pavilion, Alexander had died sobbing, blaming his mother, clinging to her skirts. Not a good role model for an emperor such as Gallienus sought to be but, officially, Alexander was a god, and as such had to be honoured.
After the duties of religion, the mundanities of the imperial office. Wherever an emperor went, embassies appeared. Two had been from local communities, each requesting protection from unlawful exactions for the cursus publicus. Abuse by officials and soldiers of the diplomata which authorized them to requisition men, animals and carts for the imperial posting service had always been endemic. Palfurius Sura, the ab Epistulis, had drafted the looked-for imperial pronouncements, weighty and full of warnings. Gallienus had signed them in purple ink. Doubtless, the communities would inscribe these responses in stone, set them up where all could see. Once the emperor was no longer in the vicinity, Gallienus wondered how much good that would do.
Three further embassies had been seen. Two, one from Achaea, the other from North Africa, had both been granted their petitions for tax relief: five years each. Neither community was particularly large or prosperous, so imperial munificence could be advertised loudly, while the fiscus lost little.
The final deputation had been more diverting. The people of an isolated village high in the Rhodope mountains had found a satyr sleeping in their fields. They had stoned the creature to death. As was always the way with the wondrous, they had brought the remains to the emperor. It was a pity the skin had not been better preserved. But the emperor and his comites had studied it closely. Although it resembled a man, the tail and hooves were still to be distinguished. Gallienus thanked the peasants graciously: it would form a fitting addition to the miraculous menagerie – the dead tritons and centaurs, the skeletons of heroes, the feathers of the phoenix, and the living dwarfs and giants, human and animal – exhibited at Rome in the palace and stored in its cellars. The rustics left rewarded with more coins than they had ever seen in their lives. Roman government had to be personal, and it had to be bountiful.
Now it was late morning and, the negotium of political audiences over, the stately schedule of the imperial day moved to otium and the pursuit of culture. Rather than reading, Gallienus had felt moved to philosophic discourse. As a Studiis, Zeno had been dispatched to find a philosopher. Even in a town such as Bergoule, in the middle of nowhere, it should not prove too difficult. As someone had said, these days it was easier to fall over in a boat without landing on a plank than look around without seeing a philosopher. The question was: would Zeno find one of any worth?
Philosophers did not travel, at least not at the behest of authority. Longinus could not be persuaded to leave Athens, nor Plotinus Rome. In fact, when Gallienus was in Rome with his wife Salonina, it was the imperial couple who had traversed the eternal city, not the lover of wisdom. Freedom of speech and self-sufficiency were keystones of the soul of a philosopher of any sect. Parresia and autarkeia, as well as a suitable contempt for the moral irrelevancies of wea
lth and fame, were well demonstrated by a philosopher declining an imperial summons. In a sense, if a philosopher did come running when an emperor called, it might be thought to demonstrate that he was not a philosopher at all. It remained to be seen what sort of creature Zeno would unearth.
The garden was pleasant. Gallienus inspected the budding fruit trees. Zeno had not brought up again the matter of Ballista. Gallienus had made inquiries with Rufinus. The head of the frumentarii did not think Zeno and Ballista had ever met. The former had been governor of Cilicia at the time of the revolt of the Macriani. But he had left the province before Ballista arrived. If the men had never met, it was unlikely there was personal animosity between them. In which case Zeno most likely had taken a bribe to raise the issue of Ballista.
Despite that, Zeno was right: something must be decided. A man who had worn the purple attracted conspirators like rotten fruit did wasps. If a man had once been thought capable of ruling the empire, he might well be considered so again: once capax imperii, always capax imperii, as Tacitus might have said.
Gallienus was unsure. Ballista was an old friend. Gallienus freely admitted, in the silence of his heart, that he owed much to the big northerner. Yet Ballista, at the very least, had to be watched. The emperor’s thoughts were running towards exile. He would have liked to impose the lesser form: relegatio from Italy and native province, with property untouched. But that did not answer. Ballista did not have a native province in the imperium, he already had a house in Sicily and, free to roam, he would be hard to monitor. No, it would have to be the more draconian form: deportation to a designated place – a small island where frumentarii could keep a close eye on him and his connections. Usually, deportation involved the confiscation of property. But Ballista was an old friend. Let him hold on to his worldly goods; let his family live with him. Ballista, like Gallienus, was known to love his family. Ballista had often said he hankered for a quiet, retiring life. Gallienus would choose a comfortable, out-of-the-way island for him to live out the time the fates granted him.
The Caspian Gates wor-4 Page 7