The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  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.’

  Ballista smiled. ‘Nearer three to one. But you are right, it is bad. Your north wall will not hold. The kilns outside screen an enemy approach. The wall is too low, has no towers, no way of enfilading attackers. Can you withdraw into the citadel?’

  ‘No!’ The Olbians spoke as one. They talked over each other. It was unthinkable. The citizens would lose everything. There was not enough room in the acropolis. It would cause chaos.

  ‘Then, when the Goths attack, you must withdraw from the gate. Barricade the streets behind, station warriors there and on the ground floor of the buildings — use the reserve and half the men from the docks — get the women and children on the roofs to drop missiles. You must pull the Goths into a prepared killing ground.’

  The Olbians looked dubious. ‘Will that be enough?’ Montanus asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Ballista. ‘It needs something else — something to sow panic among the attackers. I had thought to use the Fides — cast off tonight, conceal her on one of the islands in the Hypanis, when the Goths were committed tomorrow, land and attack their flank. But Centurion Regulus has removed that option. Although I think there is something else …’

  VIII

  Olbia

  ‘Everyone wants redemption.’ The chains prevented Heliodorus from moving.

  ‘It has to be earned,’ said Ballista. It was dark in the cellar, hard to see.

  ‘Releasing me will not make all the crew of the Fides love you.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Ballista smiled. ‘They all hated me — only you did something about it.’

  ‘Back in Alexandria, my father — may the earth lie light on him — often said my anger would be the death of me.’

  ‘I have much to do before tonight.’ Ballista was brusque. ‘Will you take an oath?’

  ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ Heliodorus actually laughed. ‘I swear by holy Serapis, and all my ancestral gods, that I will obey your orders.’

  ‘Not seek to harm me or my familia?’

  ‘Not seek to harm you or your familia.’

  Ballista looked at the dark, motionless shape of the other chained mutineer. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Your Hibernian hit him too hard. He may not live.’

  ‘If he recovers, and will take an oath, he, too, will be released.’

  ‘And if the oath is too much?’

  ‘The same as would have happened to you — his commilitones will beat him to death.’ Ballista’s tone contained no emotion. ‘You will be one of them.’

  ‘Is an oath extracted under compulsion binding?’

  ‘If I were in your position, I would not raise such philosophical points.’

  Again Heliodorus laughed. ‘Do not be concerned. I will earn my redemption.’

  The gentle touch of a fingertip just behind his ear: the accustomed signal. As he woke, silently and instantaneously, Ballista thought to see Calgacus. It was Maximus.

  ‘Anything?’ Ballista a
sked softly.

  ‘No. It will be dawn soon.’

  The abandoned winery was crowded, packed with recumbent figures, the air very stale. Ballista groaned slightly as he shifted. Sleeping in chainmail on a stone floor was not easy. Worse as you got older. He was pleased he had slept at all. But then, he had been very tired. There had been much to do.

  Few hours of daylight had been left by the time the Olbians had acceded to Ballista’s plan and put themselves in his hands. A semicircle of streets and alleys behind the north gate had been barricaded. Overturned carts, barrels, furniture and lumber had been roped together and pegged down to make them immovable — all except on the main road, where two large wagons, hastily pallisaded, made a barrier which could quickly be opened. Rough holes had been knocked in the dividing walls between some of the buildings where the defenders needed to move about. The rear doors and the windows of others had been nailed shut or boarded over. Loop holes had been hacked in their ceilings, to turn the ground floors of these into killing traps. In those buildings which had flat roofs or thatch, old amphorae and stones had been carried up to the top. The tiles on the majority, as ever in urban combat, would make excellent missiles. The great general Pyrrhus of Epirus had been killed by one dropped by an old woman. The blacksmiths in the town had hastily produced some crude caltrops. They were to be thrown out into the streets when the defenders had withdrawn to the barricades. Although more effective against cavalry, in the confusion of the coming fight they should give the attacking infantry another concern. Knowing there were sharp metal spikes underfoot always preyed on the mind. Ballista had given strict and repeated instructions that they were for the side streets only; none were to be dropped on the main thoroughfare. This had to be kept clear; much depended on it.

  The plan to draw the Goths into a prepared ground behind the gate could only hope to succeed if the adjacent walls were held. What could be done in the time had been. There were more than enough arrows. Stones, bricks, broken statues — anything that could hurt when thrown or dropped had been stockpiled along the wall walk. Pitchforks to dislodge ladders and axes to cut grappling lines had been distributed. After much thought, Ballista had ordered combustible material and metal cauldrons to heat oil — sand, when the supply of oil proved inadequate — placed at intervals. The locals confirmed his observation that the prevailing winds here were northerly or westerly. It was not in the defenders’ favour. A fire would tear through the heavily built-up town. With luck, there would be no accidents, and hopefully the Goths would not resort to such tactics, fearing to burn what they had come to plunder. If the worst came to the worst, the outer town would burn but the dressed stone of the curtain wall of the citadel should act as a firebreak.

  It had been full dark for at least two hours when the makeshift defensive works were near enough complete that Ballista considered he could leave them. Montanus had selected thirty well-armed militia men to act as cavalry the next day. Outside the Bouleuterion, Ballista had spoken separately to them. He had stressed the vital importance of their role, told them to see to both their horses and courage, pray to their gods, then get what rest they could. Tomorrow they must listen for the signal, obey commands and charge as one.

  Ballista had walked back down to the house of the strategos by the citadel gate. Fifty more citizens under arms — these all volunteers — had waited for him in the street there. Diocles had them marshalled with the twenty-eight crewmen of the Fides. By the light of torches, Ballista had explained the plan, such as it was. Castricius and Diocles had inspected them, to make certain all had followed the instructions to carry only sword and shield — the next morning’s work would be at close quarters, and bows would be just an impediment to their clandestine manoeuvres. They also checked that all had muffled their armour and boots, removed spurs, belt attachments and anything else that might make a noise, blackened their faces and hands, wrapped rags around metal helmets and donned dark cloaks. The latter had been no issue for the locals, who tended to wear them anyway. Most of the Romans had borrowed them. While that was carried out, Ballista, Maximus and Tarchon had had something to eat, relieved themselves, then had a final few words with Montanus and the other Olbian commanders.

  Rejoining the men, Ballista had thought he should address them. He had felt too tired. But some sort of speech was always expected. Standing on a mounting block by the door, looking out over the quiet ranks in the guttering torchlight, he had kept it short. They were to observe complete silence and listen for orders. They were few, but numbers would be of no account. The Goths would not be expecting them; surprise was everything. ‘Let us be men,’ he had ended. Like a religious response, they had returned the Homeric tag.

  Ballista had embraced Castricius. The little officer’s angular face was taut with concern. Ballista had run through the signals yet again: when Castricius wanted him to move he was to hoist a green flag alongside the red war standard on the house of the strategos and have three blasts on the horn sounded; if no signal had come from the town but Ballista himself judged the time was right, he likewise would have his bucinator blow three times; should those outside be forced to try to retreat back to the city, it would be four notes.

  They had embraced again. Ballista was loath to leave him behind, but he needed someone he could trust both to take direct command of the barricades and the cavalry and to oversee the whole defence. The disposition of the Olbian leaders and troops had been altered. Callistratus remained at the docks, although now with only one hundred men. Bion held the wall to the west of the gate, and Saitaphernes to the east with five hundred men between them. The reserve under Dadag manned the barricades, with some two hundred and twenty men. The cavalry waited behind them. The acropolis, the very last line of defence, was garrisoned by one hundred under Montanus. They were all stretched thin, but if those at the gate fell back to join the men at the barricades and the women and children on the roofs played their part, the town might just hold.

  Ballista had given the watchword: redemption. Most likely it was the Egyptian Heliodorus he had heard laugh, before being silenced by Diocles.

  The torches had been doused, and in silence Ballista and his party had moved up to the postern in the west wall of the acropolis. As planned, the music and lights of a religious procession had appeared, moving along the north wall. The wicket gate — carefully oiled in advance — had been swung open. Two Olbian scouts had slipped out, quickly but carefully descended the open slope beyond the tower, and been lost to view among the vines which covered the sides of the ravine.

  Ballista had waited in the doorway. Time’s arrow was held in its flight. It was about two hundred and fifty, at most three hundred paces to the third winery. The scouts had to go cautiously, but surely they had had time to get there and back.

  It was a bright night. The moon was waning but not long past full. Thin, high clouds had scudded across its face. They promised little in the way of concealment.

  Repeatedly, Ballista had fought down the urge to go outside and peer north around the tower. It would have done no good. The scouts would return opposite the postern, and anything ominous would be seen first by the watchers on the roof of the tower. Besides which, it would have undermined the pretence of calm assurance which he was trying against the odds to convey to those at his back.

  With the suddenness of a twin epiphany, like the Dioscuri or some such divine pair, the scouts emerged from the vines. They had beckoned.

  Ballista had touched Maximus on the arm and set off. Out of the shadow of the tower, the slope had seemed horribly light and exposed. It was steeper than it looked. Ballista had had to plant his feet sideways, encumbered by the shield in his right hand and his scabbard held away from his legs in his left.

  The cover of the vines had been welcome. Wordless, one of the scouts had turned and led him across the first terrace and down on to the second. There he had turned right and Ballista had followed him north for about fifty paces. They had crouched down and waited for the others to
catch up.

  The noise had been terrible. Slithering, tripping footfalls, the creak of leather; despite everything, the clink of metal. One man had fallen, stifled a curse. Like eighty blind men blundering through a potter’s yard. It had seemed inconceivable the Goths had not heard.

  When all had been in position, Ballista had waited, listening. It was not too late to go back, abandon the dangerous enterprise. Ballista had closed his eyes, the better to hear. Not in motion, the men made next to no noise. There was the soft susurration of the breeze through the foliage. As if a door were opening and closing, snatches of the hymns being sung by the procession on the north wall had come to Ballista. Occasionally, more distant sounds — shouts, traces of music — had drifted down from the abandoned town, from the camp of the Goths. An owl had called, and far away another answered.

  Ballista had got to his feet; everyone had done likewise. Ballista had wondered how many of the volunteers had come to regret their temerity. Too late now: the die was cast. The scout led them north through the speckled, shifting shadows of the ordered rows of vines. Every few paces there were fruit trees, their blossom strikingly pale in the blue-grey landscape. Now and then they had passed a henhouse, its occupants presumably gathered into the town. Ballista had always admired the resourcefulness of peasants, the way they made one plot of land serve more than one purpose. If some storm or blight took the grapes, the land would still produce apples, eggs or whatever.

  They had passed two wineries before they had reached the one Ballista had selected. It was a big stone building. Inside were three presses and two reservoirs: all empty, with a sense of desolation. The air had smelt of must. Like a pack of animals, the men had huddled down for the night.

  Ballista rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The atmosphere inside the winery was worse this morning: piss, shit and stale humanity. Forbidden to venture outside, in the night men had relieved themselves in the reservoirs. Painfully, Ballista struggled to his feet, and, following Maximus, clambered over prone bodies to the door. The air coming in smelt of early morning, clean and fresh. The ravine was still in darkness, but overhead the sky was lightening. All was quiet.