‘You think you should have told the Olbians about you and the Tervingi?’ Maximus whispered, his breath hot in Ballista’s ear.
‘No,’ said Ballista.
Of course, it had crossed his mind. But what would it have served? Two years before at Miletus, Ballista had killed Tharuaro, the son of Gunteric, killed him with an underhand trick. Ballista had gone out to fight Tharuaro in a duel, but in Loki-like cunning had had the Goth shot down. The bloodfeud had been made worse, if such were possible, not long after, when he had also killed Respa, another son of the Tervingi leader. That had been in fair combat, but it made no difference. There had been no point in telling all this to the Olbians. The knowledge that the Goths held a bloodfeud with the man the citizens had entrusted with their defence would not have encouraged them. Maybe some among the magistrates and councillors of Olbia might have wondered if they could use Ballista as a bargaining counter, offering to hand him over to their besiegers in return for their own salvation, no matter how temporary.
A flight of birds blazed gold, like a handful of thrown coins in the risen sun. Somewhere, probably in the besieged city, a cockerel hailed the new day. The first incoherent sounds floated down from the Gothic encampment. There was a tang of woodsmoke in the air. The Tervingi would not attack on empty stomachs. It promised to be a long morning, a long and anxious wait.
Ballista put the bloodfeud out of his thoughts. He had given instructions that no one was to use his name. This day he would fight under the name of Vandrad. He smiled at the thought. It was the name he and his half-brother Eadwulf had used when they were doing the things wild youths will perpetrate and had not wished to be known as sons of Isangrim — not that he had given any explanation last night.
The baulks of timber that had regulated the flow from the presses to the reservoirs in the winery had been torn out and arranged against the wall as a makeshift ramp. With difficulty, and a shove from Maximus, Ballista scrambled up into the rafters. There was no ceiling. With care, and ignoring a certain amount of threatening creaking, it was possible even for a heavy man in armour to move around on the beams and rafters. Quite a number of tiles had already been missing, and others had been removed to allow something of an all-round watch. The west revealed nothing but the opposite slope of the ravine, the shadow sinking down it as the sun climbed. To the north and south were only the ordered lines of vines and occasional fruit tree, most still in shade. Things were less bucolic towards the east. Just above, at the lip of the incline, bright in the sun, a line of grassy knolls traced the long-abandoned defensive works of the old city. Off to the south-east, less than a hundred paces away, was the corner of the outer wall of the extant town; a squat and shabby thing it looked. The battlements of the towers and curtain wall of the citadel could be seen rising beyond, perhaps a hundred paces further. From this angle their dilapidation was not evident, and they made a more reassuring sight. Best of all was the sight of the roof of the house of the strategos and the Olbian battle standard, its scarlet bravely tinged with gold in the early light. As Ballista watched, flashes of silver marked the presence of armed men at its foot. Castricius would be up there now. He would remain until the Goths attacked; afterwards, Montanus would command there. The Olbian seemed sound enough. It was always imperative to have the hope of a viable way back to at least temporary safety.
The morning breeze brought the homely smell of campfires and, tantalizingly, the aroma of cooking. It was wafting down from the Gothic lines. Ballista’s stomach was empty, his mouth dry. The Tervingi would take their time. Unlike the Greeks and Romans, all northerners appreciated the need for a good breakfast: fried steaks, bacon, hot bread, washed down with milk or watered beer. Ballista felt a twinge of the contempt, so deeply ingrained during his youth, for the men of the south. No wonder they were so small. If they ate at all first thing, it was no more than a few crumbs, fit for a sparrow. Some, through poverty or a misplaced asceticism, went as far as vegetarianism. No wonder they now went in fear of the tall, broad men from Germania.
Maximus swung up next to Ballista. As if he had read his thoughts, Maximus handed him some of yesterday’s flatbread and a heel of cheese. With a flask of watered wine, they perched and ate in the companionable silence of men long accustomed to taking food together in strange places.
The sun penetrated down into the ravine. A shaft of light fell on Maximus’s face. Its clarity gave an unusual delicacy to his features. Ballista watched his friend: the small, ever-shifting eyes, the bird-like motions, the scar at the tip of his nose. A hard man, brutal even, thoroughly addicted to sensual pleasures. But loyal to a fault, and, at times, a man of startling sensitivity, capable of love.
Ballista stopped eating. An almost physical fear rose in him. Allfather, Death-blinder, let nothing happen to Maximus, let him live. If he was killed, Ballista knew it would be his fault; just as it had been with Calgacus.
Two years before, Ballista had been in the Caucasus. There had been a woman. Not just any woman. Pythonissa was of the royal house of Suania, a priestess of the dark goddess Hecate. There had been an affair. Ballista had known from the start it would end badly. Perhaps the whining southerners were right: perhaps as a barbarian he lacked self-control, lacked the rational part of a man. Ballista had known from the start he would leave her.
He closed his eyes and the scene was before him. A lowering sky. Riding out through the muddy little village in the rain. Pythonissa standing in the gloom, hair unbound. Stretching her hands down to the earth, her blue-grey eyes on him, she had spoken the words. Hecate, triple-formed, who walks the night, hear my curse. Vengeful furies, hear my curse. Kill his wife. Kill his sons. Kill all his family, all those he loves. Let him live — in loneliness and fear. Let him wander the face of the earth, among strange peoples, always in exile, homeless and hated.
Ballista had loved Calgacus, and Calgacus had died out on the Steppe, died in agony, a sword through his guts. Ballista loved Maximus. Allfather, Deep-hood, spare my friend. Allfather -
‘Men coming.’
The low-pitched words cut short Ballista’s prayer, brought him back. Below him, the close-packed warriors — Romans and Olbians intermingled — were stirring. Tarchon was beckoning from the northern side of the rafters. Cramped and ungainly, his scabbard getting in the way, Ballista scrambled over to his side. A splinter pierced his right palm. The Suanian pointed through the gap in the roof.
At first Ballista saw nothing menacing, only the leaves of vines and trees shimmering as they shifted in the gentle wind, the patches of grey earth in their interstices. Swallows darted through the air. Below him Diocles hushed the rising murmur as the men readied weapons, whispered prayers.
A movement caught Ballista’s eye. There, about a hundred paces away. Not caused by the wind. Not a bird. A shape glimpsed through the foliage, moving towards the winery. Another following. Maybe a third.
‘Three of fuckers,’ hissed Tarchon. ‘Most untimely.’
Maximus laughed quietly.
No need to panic. Ballista had chosen the winery carefully. He had hoped its evident abandonment would deter looters. Yet it was well within effective bowshot of the town walls. The guards up there had been told to keep a sharp watch. Provided they spotted the Goths, and if the men in the building kept quiet, all should be well.
The three Tervingi were getting closer. Ballista sucked at the splinter in his hand. It hurt more than the half-healed cut on his left bicep. At the edge of his vision a cobweb fluttered. The three Goths were only thirty paces away, maybe nearer.
Something flashed very fast through the air. Another followed, then more. The Goths dived towards an apple tree. The bright fletching of arrows — red, yellow, white — quivered in the shade of the vineyard. There was something farcical, like a bad, provincial mime troupe, in the way the three Tervingi huddled together behind one thin trunk. Over their heads the spreading branches, already thick with white blossom, gave them more than enough shelter, and must have unsighted the archers o
n the wall. Arrows continued to drop around the tree intermittently. Surely it would be enough to deter further advance. There was unlikely to be much to loot in the shell of a deserted wine-making building.
From his vantage point Ballista could see the Goths clearly. Although their words did not carry, their beards were wagging. Obviously, they were conducting a fierce debate. At length, two of them jumped up and broke from cover. They diverged, running hard, bent over. Arrows fell thicker, some near them. Swerving among the vines, the men raced back the way they had come.
The third remained where he was. Ballista half heard the obscenity he shouted after his retreating compatriots. There was more humour than contempt in its tone. This was still little more than an exciting, dangerous game to him.
The two fugitives disappeared, unscathed. No more arrows came from the walls. Ballista cursed silently. From up there it might be the bowmen had seen only two of the Goths. What was this last one going to do? If he came closer, he must discover them. If that happened, he could not be allowed to return. Ballista worried with his teeth at the sliver of wood in his palm. He was a fool for not bringing some bows.
Surreptitiously, keeping the bole of the tree between him and the wall, the Goth started to move. The green of his cloak almost matched the leaves of the vines. He wormed through the plants until he reached the next terrace. He slid over it, and out of sight.
Hurriedly, Ballista scurried around the beams from one viewing place to another, like an ungainly primate in a cage. It was no good. Aiming for concealment from the watchers in the town, the Goth had got himself in a position where he was also invisible to those in the winery. He must be crawling on hands and knees close up against the side of the low terrace. Ballista was certain he would be heading towards their hiding place. Doubtless, the bastard wanted some trophy to flaunt; no matter how worthless, it would be something with which to taunt his friends for their nervousness.
Motioning those below out of the way, Ballista hung from a beam, then dropped as quietly as he could to the floor. Maximus and Tarchon landed beside him.
‘Take command, Centurion,’ Ballista whispered to Diocles.
The young Danubian officer nodded.
Not bothering with helmet or shield, Ballista went out of the door. Maximus and Tarchon accompanied him. The doorway faced east; the far side from where the Goth’s approach was leading. Indicating Tarchon to skirt around the building to the south with a wave of the hand, Ballista demonstrated how he and Maximus were going in the other direction to cut off the Tervingi warrior from his camp.
Stopping, Ballista peered around the corner of the winery. Nothing moved. Without words, he told Maximus to go north-west, to a point just behind where he thought the Goth might have reached. He himself would go further north in case their quarry should avoid the Hibernian and double back. Maximus grinned. Ballista found he was smiling back. As one, they drew their swords, nodded and moved out of the lee of the building.
Ballista started to run. The fresh spring air, aromatic with blossom and tinged with cooking, was good after the stench of inside. The sun on him, his fatigue and the years fell away. He felt invigorated. When he remembered, he counted fifty or so paces and then pushed through the next gap in the vines. He crossed to the next terrace and leapt down. Landing, blade in hand, he looked south. There was no sign of the Goth, or the others.
In a fighting stance, taking short steps, feet close together for balance, Ballista went to the nearest cover. It was another fruit tree; not budding yet, probably a plum. Crouching down, he smiled. Now it was him seeking concealment behind something too small. He had left his dark cloak in the winery, but his mail was blackened and should not betray him in the patchy sunlight. He planted his sword between him and the tree. There was blood on the hilt from his palm.
Ballista waited, peering around one side of the trunk then the other, listening hard. The wind sighed through the foliage; birds sang. If the other two had already despatched the Goth and made Ballista look foolish by coming to get him, so much the better.
The sun was warm on his shoulders. It was going to be a hot day for so early in the season. A sudden sound of something big crashing through the vines came from not far away. It came again, from his right, the east, from somewhere below him. Ballista got to his feet, hefted his weapon. There, on the terrace below, a man in a brown tunic was running in his direction, long blond hair and green cloak billowing. He was only some forty paces away.
Ballista hacked through two lines of staked vines and jumped down the four or so foot to the next level. Regaining his footing, he brought his blade up. The Goth did not break stride. He lunged straight for Ballista’s chest. A two-handed parry turned the point to Ballista’s left. The Goth ran into Ballista with his shoulder. The momentum knocked the breath from Ballista, sent him back reeling. He collided with some close-tied vines behind him, half staggered forward again. The Goth swung at the left side of his unhelmeted head. Ballista blocked. The impact jarred up his arms. The young Tervingi warrior was good. In an instant, he had reversed his sword and cut down from Ballista’s right. Another block. Again the juddering shock. Ballista gasped air back into his chest. The youth aimed a kick at his balls. Still part entangled in the greenery, Ballista twisted. The boot hit him high on the outside of his left thigh. A sickening surge of pain. He stumbled, fighting to remain upright. His leg was dead. It could give way at any moment.
The young Goth pressed his advantage. Feinting high to the left, he altered the blow and chopped down towards Ballista’s ankle. Awkwardly, Ballista brought his own blade down just in time and desperately hobbled away from the tangling clutches of the vines. If ever he needed Maximus, it was now. Him or the demented Suanian Tarchon.
The Tervingi warrior stepped back, watchful but confident. He knew there was nothing his opponent could do to prevent him making his escape. He pushed the long fair hair out of his face and was about to turn to go when the recognition showed in his eyes.
‘You — Oath-breaker, the murderer — Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. I saw you at Miletus.’ He laughed. ‘If Gunteric had known you were here, he would have come himself. Now I will take him your head.’
‘His sons tried.’ Ballista answered him in his own tongue. He had to buy some time. He flexed his left leg gently, willing the feeling back.
‘Respa was a fool. But Tharuaro was a great warrior. You killed him with a low trick, the cowardly act of a nithing.’
‘I am alive, they are dead.’
‘You live as a slave of the Romans. Now you will die as a skalks at my hand.’ The young warrior spat, changed his grip.
‘Tharuaro was the fool.’ Ballista went to shift his stance. His leg nearly buckled. Where in Hel was Maximus? ‘No one can outlive what the Norns have spun. The gods had taken Tharuaro’s wits.’
‘Enough talk.’ The Tervingi dropped into the Ox guard — half turned, left leg forward, sword held high, palm down, jutting out like the horn of an ox — good for outmanoeuvring an incapacitated opponent.
Ballista dropped into a defensive posture: side on, weight on his rear right leg, sword two-handed out in front.
The Goth stepped right then left. Ballista countered; slow, lame and favouring his good leg but never taking his eyes from the bright tip of the three foot of steel which sought to end his life. Almost all men make a tiny involuntary movement before they launch an attack. Where the fuck were Maximus and that halfwit Tarchon?
A slight tremor in the steel, and then the Tervingi cut down at Ballista’s leading leg. A bad mistake fighting without a shield. Automatically, Ballista started to withdraw the leg and shape a riposte to the head. Allfather, his bad leg. Clumsily, Ballista checked, dragged his blade down and across. The ring of steel on steel. The pain was excruciating as much of his weight came on his left leg.
The Goth withdrew, reversed his blade and swung it underhand. Flat-footed, panting with distress, Ballista was driven nearly to his knees as he caught the attack a hand’s breadth
from his face. Instinctively, he flicked his own spatha at the young man’s legs. Almost gracefully, the Goth leapt back out of reach.
Again they circled, the Goth driving Ballista this way and that. The Goth was moving well; Ballista badly. The Goth had age on his side. All Ballista had was his mailshirt and experience.
Ballista made a pass at the young raider’s head. Not trusting his leg, he knew it would prove ineffectual, but it was important not to surrender all initiative. What was that sound?
‘You suck cock like Tharuaro? You Goths are said to love it.’
The young warrior laughed. ‘Insults will not help you, Oath-breaker.’
‘Sucking cock and running like girls — you miss the northlands my grandfather chased you from?’
The sound again — running feet. The Goth heard it, too. His eyes flicked away. It was enough. Ballista lunged and jabbed to the face. The Goth flinched, instinctively covering himself with his sword. One-handed, Ballista slashed his sword down, almost vertical. It just caught the outside of the Goth’s left knee. The young man howled, doubled up. Dropping his weapon, his hands clutched the wound. Ballista’s leg gave. He staggered a few steps, righted himself and hobbled back.
The Goth looked up.
Maximus and Tarchon were nearly up with them.
The young Tervingi looked at his fallen sword, then at Ballista’s blade, and abandoned the idea. ‘I will see you in Hel.’
Ballista smashed the edge of his blade down into the face of the youth.
Maximus and Tarchon came to a halt, breathless.
‘About fucking time.’
The Amber Road wor-6 Page 10
