A man in armour was jabbering at Montanus. Everyone was scrambling off their couches. Shite, the Goths were in the old town.
Maximus hauled on his boots, then buckled on his sword belt as he bundled up the stairs after Ballista. From the roof you could see for miles. The house of the strategos was well chosen. To the west, beyond the ravine, the land rolled off into the distance, green and peaceful. Below, to the east, the river glinted through a veil of smoke. And, to the north, the remains of the old town stretched away. Maximus had good eyes. He saw the grey column of infantry skirting a still-standing tower, pressing on south down what had been the main street, towards the ancient agora.
‘Hoist the signal for an attack.’ Montanus sounded controlled. Maybe he was less of a joke commander than Maximus had judged him.
‘Bion, get down and bar the northern gate. Make sure the bowmen are well spread along the wall. Callistratus, would you take your station down in the port. Dadag, assemble the reserve by the citadel gate; keep it open unless I give the order. Saitaphernes, keep a close watch from the acropolis walls. I will remain here. Let us remember our courage. Let us be men.’
‘Strategos,’ Ballista spoke urgently, ‘my men are in the agora. If Bion shuts the gate, they will be trapped outside.’
‘I am sorry, it cannot be helped.’
‘There are nearly thirty fighting men out there — too many to sacrifice.’
‘We cannot put the town at risk. There is no help for it.’
‘Then we will go to them,’ said Ballista. ‘If we return, and are not hard pressed, have Bion open the gate.’
Montanus looked at Callistratus, who nodded. ‘It will be as you wish,’ Montanus said, ‘but if the Goths are on your heels, you will have to take your chances.’
They turned to go.
‘Wait,’ said Montanus. ‘There is a postern into the acropolis, the second tower on the west face, overlooking the ravine. Saitaphernes will tell the guards to watch. But if the Goths …’ There was no point in him finishing.
Maximus ran down the stairs after Ballista. By the time he reached the street, he was out of breath: too much soft living. They pounded after Bion, under the great arch, over the bridge, between the crammed-together buildings. There were many in the streets, but to give the Olbians their due, there was little panic. Militia men ran to their posts — pulling on their arms as they went — women herded children and animals inside. Living surrounded by enemies taught a hard lesson.
At the gate Bion shouted orders, sending men up and along the wall walk. Maximus doubled over, panting; Ballista and Castricius likewise. Tarchon seemed in better condition. The Suanian was just a little younger. Gods, but Maximus was getting too old for this shite.
Ballista used Maximus to haul himself upright. ‘Bion, would you get ropes?’
‘Ropes?’
Ballista drew a couple of deep breaths, got the words out. ‘If you have had to shut the gates, you might haul some of my men to safety. My familia can hold the Goths off for a time.’
‘Where would — ’
‘The docks — use ship’s cables, anything.’
The young officer smiled. ‘I will see to it. You had better go. I am going to shut the gate.’
Outside, a boy was driving a herd of goats towards the town.
‘Leave them,’ Bion called. ‘Run!’
The boy hesitated. He was a slave, and his owner would beat him if he lost the goats.
‘Now!’
The boy sprinted past Maximus, sandals pattering on the road.
The gate slammed shut. The sound of the bar being dropped.
‘Time to go,’ said Ballista. They set off through the unconcerned goats.
As ill luck would have it, at that moment a family — a man and woman, two children — emerged from the ruins. They saw the shut gate and began to wail.
Maximus paused.
‘Come on.’ Ballista called over his shoulder. He was right. Maximus knew there was nothing they could do. Holding his scabbard out to avoid it tangling in his legs, he jogged off after the other three.
Running in the hot sun, a mailshirt dragging at your shoulders, a good meal and plenty of wine inside you, was never good. Castricius especially was suffering. Maximus had his breathing more under control. He overtook the little Roman.
More Olbians, caught out by the suddenness of the barbarian descent, appeared in the narrow path. Swerving around them, Maximus hoped Bion would exercise mercy, or that they would make it to the postern.
A largish body of men were fleeing down towards them. The crew of the Fides. They ran pell-mell, in no form of order.
‘Halt!’ Years of command had given authority to Ballista’s voice.
They faltered, and stopped. Eighteen of them. They had thrown away the heavy wooden training weaponry. Maximus noted they had their real blades at their belts. No one had a shield or helmet. There was no sign of the optio Diocles or the others.
‘Form columns of fours,’ ordered Ballista. Most began to obey, until a large, shaven-headed soldier at the front gestured them to stop. Maximus knew him — Heliodorus, an Egyptian, particular friend of the two killed in the bar.
‘Disobeying an order is mutiny. You know the penalty for mutiny,’ said Ballista.
‘Fuck you.’ Heliodorus turned to the others and spoke in the Latin of the ranks. ‘Are we going to take this from this prick?’
‘The penalty is death,’ said Ballista.
‘This is our chance, boys; no one will know.’ Heliodorus drew his sword.
Maximus found his gladius in his hand.
‘Come on, pueri,’ said Heliodorus. ‘We can finish this here. There are only four of the cunts.’ Five or six also drew their weapons. The others stood, hesitant.
The path was narrowed by rubble. There was only space for two men to wield their swords with any effect. Maximus moved up on Ballista’s left shoulder. Castricius and Tarchon fell back a pace or two. They might be only four, but, unlike the mutineers, they wore mail. And, unlike the mutineers, they were all proven close to the steel.
In a fighting crouch, Maximus watched his opponent. Heliodorus faced Ballista. As ever, Maximus’s chest felt tight and hollow at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus saw Heliodorus lunge. He heard the ring of steel as Ballista blocked.
The man in front of Maximus came on, half turned, spatha held high.
Again the clash of steel to his right. The soldier in front was working himself up to strike.
‘Do not kill him,’ Ballista shouted over the noise.
Maximus’s opponent cut to the head. Maximus took the blow on his gladius, rolled it over his head and thrust. At the last moment he remembered Ballista’s instruction and pushed his strike wide. The man swung his sword back. Maximus had to scramble backwards. The edge hissed in front of his face.
Maximus regained his balance. This was all wrong. Only a fool fought and tried not to kill. It was unnatural, far from easy, just asking to get yourself struck down.
More clashes of steel on steel to the right — one, two, three, in quick succession.
The mutineer came in again, swung fast from left and right. A flurry of blows. Maximus parried them with precision. There was an opening each time. Maximus fought down his instinct to finish it. The battle calm was on him, the strange altered state where things moved slowly, where he had all the time in the world, where he could see the fight two or three blows ahead. He was laughing. Gods, but he knew himself to be a dangerous bastard.
The mutineer stepped back, breathing hard. Maximus risked a glance around. Some of the others were clambering over the debris on either side. He put them out of his mind. Castricius and Tarchon would deal with them. Most still stood, rooted to the spot.