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. Better 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.
