The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  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.

  ‘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 t
he 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 on 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 bl
ossom 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.