‘The sage recognized his shield from his former life. Later, the soul passed to the diviner Hermotimas. He also pointed to the shield in your hands.’
Withdrawn into a corner, the aide was muttering, possibly a prayer.
Ballista laughed. ‘I doubt a Trojan hero, having been one of the seven sages, would choose to be reborn as a warrior from Germania.’
‘The gods choose,’ said the prophetes. Inconspicuously, his aide warded off evil, with his thumb between his first two fingers.
A shout rang out from somewhere above: fire – the Goths are here.
Ballista pointed to the nearer of the two staircases set in the side walls. A roof terrace, Selandros told him. Ballista led the dash. The stairwell doubled and redoubled back on itself, replicating the labyrinth pattern on its ceiling.
As they emerged into the bright light, a flock of sparrows took wing from a nearby roof. A thought, bird-like, fluttered just out of Ballista’s grasp. Sparrows, Didyma, a lesson in impiety… something like that. If they both lived, he would ask Hippothous. He was different, that Greek: a living encyclopaedia who enjoyed killing.
A knot of men in a jumble of ill-fitting archaic armour was looking to the north-west. Ballista followed their gaze. There were men moving around the gate through which he had ridden, lots of men. They surged in and out of the surrounding buildings. As Ballista watched, the first thin tendrils of smoke writhed upwards. The temple of Artemis, someone muttered. Others took up the words, some started praying. The smoke bodied out as the east wind tugged it away.
Sounds of commotion floated up from below, from the entrance of Apollo’s temple. A local, a man with an air of competence despite his ludicrous assemblage of outmoded armour, crossed the terrace and peered down. ‘Fuck,’ he said simply.
Ballista joined him. Figures were appearing from the front of the temple. They were brandishing makeshift weapons – scythes, flails; a few had swords. They were rushing around the corner of the podium, heading towards the fire. Ballista looked questioningly at the man next to him. ‘The stupid fuckers think to save the temple of Artemis,’ the man said.
For a moment Ballista was dumbfounded. ‘But the Goths will massacre them.’
‘Yes,’ said the man.
‘Heracles’ hairy arse,’ said Maximus. ‘You cannot save people from their own stupidity.’
‘No,’ agreed Ballista, ‘but we will have to try.’ Calling for Maximus, Hippothous and the four soldiers to follow, Ballista set off back down the stairs.
At the foot of the steps, Ballista turned towards the entrance. He slid to his arse, propelled himself down and through the great window, and ran through the avenue of columns.
A crowd jostled in his way. He shouted for them to move. They took no notice. He drew his sword and swung it. The flat of the heavy spatha hit a man on the side of the head. He fell. Ballista swung the sword again. A man struck on the shoulder reeled away. The crowd parted.
Reaching the entrance, Ballista turned. His men crushed in behind him. Ballista flashed the blade in a fast, complicated pattern. Its edge shone, evil in the light. The crowd drew back.
‘No one leaves the temple. All of you, go back to the adyton.’
Their courage deflated, the mob melted away.
‘What about the ones outside?’ Maximus asked.
‘They are fucked,’ said Ballista.
It took nearly two hours for the Goths to plunder their way to the temple of Apollo. Enough time for Ballista to improvise some sort of defence. A shieldwall of eight in the gap between the columns: Ballista himself, Maximus and six soldiers. Eight close-lapped shields, two levels of four, protecting them from missiles. One soldier up on each side of the roof, trying to ready the locals to hurl things down on to the attackers. Hippothous also on the roof, tasked with going wherever he might be needed.
Ballista studied what was in front of him. Fourteen steep steps. Beyond, a flat area of beaten earth across the front of the temple, maybe twenty paces deep. Just in front and to the right of the foot of the steps, a big cone of solidified ash held by a low circular wall: the main altar. There were other altars, statues and inscriptions dotted here and there, but not enough to give the Goths much cover. They would have to cross the open ground and then attempt the steps.
The waiting before combat was always hard. The soldiers were silent, their kit creaking as they shifted their weight. Maximus whistled tunelessly, then launched into a lengthy monologue about a girl he had had in Miletus. His tone was one of mock outrage that a girl would initiate such depravity, and him an innocent boy from a distant island. It was a good job he was broadminded and had excellent stamina.
Smoke swirled around the monuments of Hellenic piety. There was a lurid yellow quality to the light, a reek of destruction. Not far away, people were screaming. Maximus kept talking.
The first Goths materialized through the smog of their own making. Helmeted, bearded, they slowly coagulated into groups.
‘Come on, you little piggies,’ called Maximus in the language of the raiders. ‘Come and get skewered.’
Ballista reflected that the obscenity did not translate well from the Greek. As far as he was aware, in the Gothic dialect of the language of Germania, ‘piggy’ was not a synonym for ‘cunt’.
A solid shieldburg of warriors had formed facing the temple. A warrior took a couple of paces forward. He kept himself well covered by his shield.
‘I am Respa, son of Gunteric, of the Tervingi. The murdered Tharuaro was my brother. You in the temple, give up the oath-breaker Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the skalks the Romans call Ballista, and you have my word you will be spared.’
Ballista laughed. Gunteric could call him oath-breaker, slave, anything he wanted. With the exception of Ballista himself and Maximus, it was most unlikely anyone in the temple understood any of it, apart from his Roman name.
A voice called in Greek from the midst of the northmen, slightly muffled but audible. Presumably it was Chrysogonus. When Respa’s words had been translated, there was murmuring in the dark corners of the temple. It was cunning, but Ballista was not unduly worried. Even should they desire it, these Milesian civilians did not have the balls to try and give him up.
‘I know you,’ shouted Maximus. ‘Respa, the one they call Cocksucker. You must miss your brother’s sword in your mouth.’
‘And I know you, the foul-mouthed Hibernian catamite of Dernhelm.’ The big Goth raised his sword hilt-up to the sky. ‘Fairguneis the Thunderer, all you high gods of the Goths, I pledge two fine stallions and a dozen oxen, if you grant Dernhelm Oath-breaker and the foul Hibernian fall beneath my sword.’
Ballista snorted derisively. ‘You are long on words, but short on courage. Here we are – come and try your luck.’
Respa did not reply. At his gesture, a dozen or so warriors shook themselves out of the shieldburg. Big men, in helmets, shields, mail coats, swords, all sporting a surfeit of golden arm-rings. Men to be considered. Their reiks led them warily forward.
They halted, spread out by the circular altar. Respa spoke to them, too low for Ballista to hear. A single tile dropped from the roof. It shattered harmlessly. The Goths laughed, an unpleasant, wolfish sound.
Ballista silently cursed the Milesians on the roof. How much nerve did it take to throw things from a position of complete safety? What the fuck was the soldier up there doing? Where was that posturing Greek Hippothous? The Goths should be advancing through a hail of missiles.
Respa and another warrior took the lead. They reached the first step. The others fanned out behind.
‘Open order,’ Ballista shouted. Everyone apart from Ballista and Maximus fell back. The two of them shuffled into position, alert to the need for room for their swordplay.
Respa and the other champion came up the steps.
‘Now!’ said Ballista. As one, Ballista and Maximus took three paces back. Only a fool would make a stand at the top of a flight of stairs – your legs were exposed; it was further for your sword to stretch down. They both dropped into the ‘plough guard’: shield out, its leading edge pointing at the enemy, sword held underhand, low to the side.
Respa bounded over the top step. With horrible speed, he took two quick paces, unleashed a deafening war
