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 slow 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
