The soldier feinted a low cut to the left ankle, withdrew and thrust at Maximus’s chest. That was enough. Two-handed, Maximus forced the spatha to his left, stepped inside, brought his right elbow up and rammed it into the mutineer’s face. A satisfying crunch as the nose broke. Maximus cracked the flat of his blade down on the wrist of his opponent’s sword hand. The spatha clattered to the ground. He swung the pommel up and smashed it into the man’s temple. He collapsed like a sacrificial animal. Stepping back, to avoid tripping over him, Maximus flicked the point of his sword up and out.
Heliodorus was also down, flat on his back, semi-conscious. Ballista stood over him, tip of the blade at his throat.
‘Four of you pick them up. The rest form columns of fours.’ Ballista’s voice was calm, as if arranging some trivial point of detail.
As the troops shuffled to obey, Diocles arrived at the head of the remaining ten.
‘All well?’ Diocles asked.
‘All well,’ Ballista replied.
The men fell in.
‘Ready to march?’ There was little of a question in Ballista’s words.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The ritual response came back almost with an air of relief.
‘The Goths are not here yet,’ Ballista said. ‘All should be well. Let us go.’
Back in safety, up on the roof of the house of the strategos, Ballista thought it could all have gone a great deal worse. The Goths had not come up with them during the retreat. Bion had opened the gate and let them into the town. Heliodorus and the other mutineer who had fought were now in chains in a cellar, and Diocles had most of the rest of the crew of the Fides at ease waiting in the street below. One contubernium had been sent to the docks to fetch the centurion Regulus and those who had been working on the ship, as well as to carry up all the shields and javelins.
From this point of vantage, it was obvious to what they owed their escape. While the Goths now had a force watching the town gate from well out of bowshot, and, judging by a concentration of standards and men, their leaders had established themselves on and around a large kurgan beyond the agora, most of the raiders were spread through the remains of the old town, looting whatever granaries, smithies and the like were to be found. Given the circumstances, Gothic numbers were difficult to estimate. However, Ballista judged it a substantial war band — maybe about three thousand warriors.
Montanus was explaining the dispositions of the defenders. There were just under a thousand men under arms in the city: five hundred along the north wall, two hundred down at the docks, one hundred watching the acropolis, and the final two hundred acting as a reserve. The numbers were not exact. All had bow, sword and shield. About one in five had armour; all of those and quite a few more also possessed a helmet. While by no means first-rate troops — indeed, many were youths or old men — the exigencies of frontier life did mean that almost all would at least have witnessed combat.
Lost in thought, Ballista did not respond.
‘Now we know why the Castle of Achilles upriver was deserted.’ Montanus smiled ruefully. ‘Also it explains why Gunteric, Chief of the Tervingi, did not appear to demand the usual tribute.’
Still Ballista said nothing.
‘Perhaps the Goths had something to do with the slaves who are infecting Hylaea. In our fathers’ time the city fell because the militia had been lured there.’
‘Artillery?’ Ballista asked.
‘I am afraid not,’ said Montanus. ‘There is nothing behind the ports in the acropolis. When Gallus withdrew the troops, it went with them.’
‘Horses?’
‘Some two hundred of the militia can serve as cavalry.’
‘I did not see any war galleys at the docks.’
Montanus shrugged. ‘There are two. They have gone to watch the slaves on Hylaea. We can send a boat to recall them. But they are small; no more than fifty oarsmen on each.’
‘Nevertheless, it should be done.’ Ballista looked away across the broad river. ‘Can your other settlements raise a relief force?’
‘No.’
‘There are wells in the town?’
‘Yes, and in the citadel.’
‘That is good. What of provisions? Zeno told me you were short of grain.’
‘If the rich open their own reserves to the polis — and they will — we should have enough for five or six weeks; more with careful rationing.’
Ballista looked north to where he had been training his men. ‘There was a granary by the abandoned agora. How much grain will the Goths have taken?’
‘It is hard to say. There are other storehouses in the old town. Several of the members of the Boule prefer to keep their stores out there — less risk of fire.’
Less accountable in times of need, Ballista thought.
Callistratus politely, but firmly, spoke up. ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, you saved Miletus and Didyma from the Goths, Tervingi among them. What will they do?’
Ballista knuckled his eyes tiredly. ‘I served under Gallus, before he was emperor, when he defended Novae. The Goths used rams, towers, ramps, even some artillery. They tried mining. It was believed Roman deserters taught them. They can do siege works, but they prefer other ways. They say they have no quarrel with stone walls. Unless they bring up boats and blockade the river, they cannot starve you out. Are there any within the town who might open the gates to them?’
‘Never,’ said Callistratus. ‘Everyone knows the horror of the last sack.’
‘Then it depends how badly they want what is in the town.’
At Ballista’s words, Maximus looked sharply at him.
‘Most likely tomorrow or the following day, they will assault the north wall.’
The Olbians stirred uneasily. ‘What should we do?’ Callistratus asked.
Ballista did not answer at once. He gazed in different directions, thinking hard; reckoning distances and lines of sight, estimating times and probabilities, weighing so many variables.
‘Dominus.’
The voice broke Ballista’s concentration. He turned, irritated.
‘Dominus.’ It was Diocles. ‘Centurion Regulus and the contubernium with him at the quayside have taken the Fides. They have gone.’
For a moment Ballista had no idea what Diocles was talking about. When he realized, he was neither surprised or upset. In some ways, it might be for the best.
‘He has deserted.’ Diocles was outraged.
‘He might have his reasons,’ Ballista said. ‘Optio Diocles, by the authority invested in me by the mandata of the Augustus Gallienus, I appoint you centurion.’
Diocles snapped a salute. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
‘What should we do?’ Callistratus failed to keep the edge of desperation out of his voice. ‘We are outnumbered five or six to one.’
Ballista smiled. ‘Nearer three to one. But you are right, it is bad. Your north wall will not hold. The kilns outside screen an enemy approach. The wall is too low, has no towers, no way of enfilading attackers. Can you withdraw into the citadel?’
‘No!’ The Olbians spoke as one. They talked over each other. It was unthinkable. The citizens would lose everything. There was not enough room in the acropolis. It would cause chaos.
‘Then, when the Goths attack, you must withdraw from the gate. Barricade the streets behind, station warriors there and on the ground floor of the buildings — use the reserve and half the men from the docks — get the women and children on the roofs to drop missiles. You must pull the Goths into a prepared killing ground.’
The Olbians looked dubious. ‘Will that be enough?’ Montanus asked.