‘If you want men to think that you are more than a day-labourer hired for copper, the lowest asneis, if you have any honour left, you will come down and face me.’ Tharuaro stepped clear of his men, empty handed and contemptuous. Hoom, hoom; the Goths growled their approval.
Ballista pulled Maximus close and whispered urgently. The Hibernian nodded. Ballista spoke in his ear again. Maximus nodded once more.
‘I will come down.’ Ballista and Maximus punched each other on the shoulder. The Angle moved to the steps. He stopped and turned. ‘Remember – afterwards, only the boats.’ He continued on down.
The gate remained open behind Ballista. He walked a few paces and stopped. In the gathering light, the dockside seemed very open and exposed. All was very quiet. Behind him, the torches on the wall walk fizzed and crackled.
Without glancing behind, Tharuaro held his arms out from his body. Two warriors came forth, placed a shield and spear in his hands, and faded back. Tharuaro remained, very still, arms outstretched – a parody of Christ crucified – armoured and, on his helmet, the snarling skull of a marten.
With no warning, Tharuaro took two short, quick steps, then a lengthy lunge to his left. As he moved, the shield swung across his body and the spear arced into the air.
Ballista did not flinch.
Tharuaro gracefully caught the heavily turning spear; two short, quick steps back, a lunge to the right; feet slapping on the marble, the shield in motion all the time.
Hoom, hoom; the Goths murmured their appreciation, boots beginning to stamp the rhythm of the dance – short, short, long.
Ballista could feel his anger rise. Who did this Gothic reiks think he was facing? A green boy? A soft southerner? Many times, Ballista had faced warriors dancing before the shieldwall. He had first done so when little more than a child in Germania, and repeatedly as a man in Roman arms – up by the Danube, before the triumph of Novae and the disaster of Abritus. There had even been Gothic auxiliaries dancing in front of the lines of the pretender Aemilianus before the battle of Spoletium which had brought Gallienus and his poor, damned father Valerian to the purple.
Tharuaro danced well. If the war dance had been in Ballista’s soul, he would have answered the Goth. It was not, so Ballista stood and watched. Over the years, the Angle had observed warriors who did not dance respond to its challenge in very different ways. Some edged forwards, rattling their weapons, even gnawing the rim of their shield, everything about them on edge and ready. Others attempted nonchalance, chatting to those around them, maybe even turning their back.
Stock still, Ballista stood and watched. Tharuaro danced on, the pace increasing, the spear revolving higher, but he was not one of the Woden-inspired. Ballista knew their sort well. His own father, Isangrim, was a wolf- warrior – in front of the shieldwall, laying down his sword, baying, howling, unconscious of what he did, calling down the slathering power of the Allfather’s beast. Blind to pain, hard to stop; they were the ones you could not but fear.
Tharuaro’s movements were growing faster. Behind him, the low rumble of the northern war cry was beginning. Soon the dancer’s limbs would become a blur, the barritus of the warriors would crescendo like a wave crashing on a cliff.
It was time to end this. Time for Ballista’s Loki-plan. It would damn him in many men’s eyes, would damn him in the eyes of the Tervingi, of all the Goths. And in that it would serve its purpose.
With no ado, Ballista raised his shield then threw himself sideways to the ground, curling under its wooden boards. Immediately, the air was full of violent sound, like the tearing of innumerable fabrics. Keeping very low, leaving the shield, Ballista scrambled back to the gate. There was a great, outraged roaring from the Goths. Missiles skittered off the pavement around Ballista. The gate slammed shut.
Inside, Ballista took the steps two at a time, but when he reached the wall walk things were irrevocable. Tharuaro’s corpse, pincushioned with arrows, was being dragged away. The helmet with the feral skull had rolled off. The Gothic shieldburg had surged forward to the wall, intent on revenge. But already the warriors were falling back. The reason for their retreat was evident. Following Ballista’s whispered instructions to Maximus, now every archer along the defences was shooting fire arrows as fast as he could into the Gothic longboats. The scant crews left aboard were scurrying about, but fresh flames were blossoming out faster than they could be extinguished.
Ballista watched the main body of the Goths tumble into the boats, hurl themselves on to their rowing benches. Unmoored, the double-prowed vessels pulled away from the dock, into the harbour, and out beyond the entrance where crouched the big carved lions which gave the haven its name.
A messenger puffed up on to the battlements. The group of Goths that had rounded the peninsula and attacked from the east had set on fire the jetties and the huts of the fishermen, but now also were falling back.
‘Well,’ said Maximus, ‘if the lot in the south are content with looting a few homes and temples and do not want to try their luck against the land walls – and I am thinking they will not – that is that for today.’
Ballista grunted.
‘Sure, two things accomplished: the attack driven off, and the Tervingi added to the many who will move heaven and earth to see you dead – the start of a new bloodfeud.’ Maximus grinned. ‘Everything you wanted.’
X
The emperor was in bed with his cinaedus when the rain came. Gallienus lay on his back listening to the first individual drops thumping into the garden outside the open window. Instantly, the air was full of the invigorating smell of clean earth.
Gallienus had been looking forward to reaching Serdica. The comitatus had ridden hard across Thrace from Bergoule; thirty miles a day or more. He had announced there would be a break of three days to rest the men and horses, to let the stragglers catch up. Serdica was a town on the rise; full of confidence, new buildings going up, even a palatium. Although the imperial palace was unfinished, it was a fine place to relax. There had been no time on the journey east, so Gallienus had decided it would be pleasant to spend a day inspecting the nearby battlefield where, the year before, his general Aureolus had defeated the Macriani.
All Gallienus’s feelings of ease had been vitiated by the news that had come as he approached the walls of Serdica. A messenger, grimed by tough travel along the cursus publicus, announced that Gothic pirates had sacked Ephesus eight days previously.
Gallienus had done what he could. There was no question of turning back. The situation in the west demanded the presence of the emperor. He had to tour the provinces of the Pannonias and Noricum, ensure their loyalty, and reach Italy and Mediolanum as soon as possible, before the campaigning season was well under way. Gallienus had written to Odenathus of Palmyra; as corrector of the east, the Lion of the Sun should take whatever measures were possible. The fleets in the east were in such poor condition there was little to be hoped from them. Gallienus had also sent one of his protectores, the Italian Celer Venerianus, post haste ahead to Ravenna. The fleet there was in better shape. Venerianus had a reputation as an admiral. He was to assemble a squadron and proceed with all speed to the Aegean. Of course, by the time Venerianus got there, the Goths would be long gone, back to the Black Sea with their booty. But something had to be seen to be done. The eastern provincials had to be reassured, had to be shown imperial solicitude, or they might think of taking things into their own hands. And, sure as night followed day, that would mean yet another pretender clad in the purple; yet another civil war, to further weaken the imperium.
As often when perturbed, Gallienus had turned not to the consolations of philosophy, as a man of culture should, but to sex. In itself, that weakness in his character sometimes irritated him. He wished his German mistress Pippa, his sweet Pippara, were with him. A Marcomannic upbringing had filled her with nothing but contempt for philosophy and its sanctimonious adherents. But she had been left in Mediolanum. The journey had been too hard for a woman. At least he had Demetrius.
The Greek youth was still asleep. It was the half-light just before dawn. Gallienus turned and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair from Demetrius’s face. The boy was beautiful and cultured as well as skilled in the ways of
