Ballista had given the watchword: redemption. Most likely it was the Egyptian Heliodorus he had heard laugh, before being silenced by Diocles.
The torches had been doused, and in silence Ballista and his party had moved up to the postern in the west wall of the acropolis. As planned, the music and lights of a religious procession had appeared, moving along the north wall. The wicket gate — carefully oiled in advance — had been swung open. Two Olbian scouts had slipped out, quickly but carefully descended the open slope beyond the tower, and been lost to view among the vines which covered the sides of the ravine.
Ballista had waited in the doorway. Time’s arrow was held in its flight. It was about two hundred and fifty, at most three hundred paces to the third winery. The scouts had to go cautiously, but surely they had had time to get there and back.
It was a bright night. The moon was waning but not long past full. Thin, high clouds had scudded across its face. They promised little in the way of concealment.
Repeatedly, Ballista had fought down the urge to go outside and peer north around the tower. It would have done no good. The scouts would return opposite the postern, and anything ominous would be seen first by the watchers on the roof of the tower. Besides which, it would have undermined the pretence of calm assurance which he was trying against the odds to convey to those at his back.
With the suddenness of a twin epiphany, like the Dioscuri or some such divine pair, the scouts emerged from the vines. They had beckoned.
Ballista had touched Maximus on the arm and set off. Out of the shadow of the tower, the slope had seemed horribly light and exposed. It was steeper than it looked. Ballista had had to plant his feet sideways, encumbered by the shield in his right hand and his scabbard held away from his legs in his left.
The cover of the vines had been welcome. Wordless, one of the scouts had turned and led him across the first terrace and down on to the second. There he had turned right and Ballista had followed him north for about fifty paces. They had crouched down and waited for the others to catch up.
The noise had been terrible. Slithering, tripping footfalls, the creak of leather; despite everything, the clink of metal. One man had fallen, stifled a curse. Like eighty blind men blundering through a potter’s yard. It had seemed inconceivable the Goths had not heard.
When all had been in position, Ballista had waited, listening. It was not too late to go back, abandon the dangerous enterprise. Ballista had closed his eyes, the better to hear. Not in motion, the men made next to no noise. There was the soft susurration of the breeze through the foliage. As if a door were opening and closing, snatches of the hymns being sung by the procession on the north wall had come to Ballista. Occasionally, more distant sounds — shouts, traces of music — had drifted down from the abandoned town, from the camp of the Goths. An owl had called, and far away another answered.
Ballista had got to his feet; everyone had done likewise. Ballista had wondered how many of the volunteers had come to regret their temerity. Too late now: the die was cast. The scout led them north through the speckled, shifting shadows of the ordered rows of vines. Every few paces there were fruit trees, their blossom strikingly pale in the blue-grey landscape. Now and then they had passed a henhouse, its occupants presumably gathered into the town. Ballista had always admired the resourcefulness of peasants, the way they made one plot of land serve more than one purpose. If some storm or blight took the grapes, the land would still produce apples, eggs or whatever.
They had passed two wineries before they had reached the one Ballista had selected. It was a big stone building. Inside were three presses and two reservoirs: all empty, with a sense of desolation. The air had smelt of must. Like a pack of animals, the men had huddled down for the night.
Ballista rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The atmosphere inside the winery was worse this morning: piss, shit and stale humanity. Forbidden to venture outside, in the night men had relieved themselves in the reservoirs. Painfully, Ballista struggled to his feet, and, following Maximus, clambered over prone bodies to the door. The air coming in smelt of early morning, clean and fresh. The ravine was still in darkness, but overhead the sky was lightening. All was quiet.
‘You think you should have told the Olbians about you and the Tervingi?’ Maximus whispered, his breath hot in Ballista’s ear.
‘No,’ said Ballista.
Of course, it had crossed his mind. But what would it have served? Two years before at Miletus, Ballista had killed Tharuaro, the son of Gunteric, killed him with an underhand trick. Ballista had gone out to fight Tharuaro in a duel, but in Loki-like cunning had had the Goth shot down. The bloodfeud had been made worse, if such were possible, not long after, when he had also killed Respa, another son of the Tervingi leader. That had been in fair combat, but it made no difference. There had been no point in telling all this to the Olbians. The knowledge that the Goths held a bloodfeud with the man the citizens had entrusted with their defence would not have encouraged them. Maybe some among the magistrates and councillors of Olbia might have wondered if they could use Ballista as a bargaining counter, offering to hand him over to their besiegers in return for their own salvation, no matter how temporary.
A flight of birds blazed gold, like a handful of thrown coins in the risen sun. Somewhere, probably in the besieged city, a cockerel hailed the new day. The first incoherent sounds floated down from the Gothic encampment. There was a tang of woodsmoke in the air. The Tervingi would not attack on empty stomachs. It promised to be a long morning, a long and anxious wait.
Ballista put the bloodfeud out of his thoughts. He had given instructions that no one was to use his name. This day he would fight under the name of Vandrad. He smiled at the thought. It was the name he and his half-brother Eadwulf had used when they were doing the things wild youths will perpetrate and had not wished to be known as sons of Isangrim — not that he had given any explanation last night.
The baulks of timber that had regulated the flow from the presses to the reservoirs in the winery had been torn out and arranged against the wall as a makeshift ramp. With difficulty, and a shove from Maximus, Ballista scrambled up into the rafters. There was no ceiling. With care, and ignoring a certain amount of threatening creaking, it was possible even for a heavy man in armour to move around on the beams and rafters. Quite a number of tiles had already been missing, and others had been removed to allow something of an all-round watch. The west revealed nothing but the opposite slope of the ravine, the shadow sinking down it as the sun climbed. To the north and south were only the ordered lines of vines and occasional fruit tree, most still in shade. Things were less bucolic towards the east. Just above, at the lip of the incline, bright in the sun, a line of grassy knolls traced the long-abandoned defensive works of the old city. Off to the south-east, less than a hundred paces away, was the corner of the outer wall of the extant town; a squat and shabby thing it looked. The battlements of the towers and curtain wall of the citadel could be seen rising beyond, perhaps a hundred paces further. From this angle their dilapidation was not evident, and they made a more reassuring sight. Best of all was the sight of the roof of the house of the strategos and the Olbian battle standard, its scarlet bravely tinged with gold in the early light. As Ballista watched, flashes of silver marked the presence of armed men at its foot. Castricius would be up there now. He would remain until the Goths attacked; afterwards, Montanus would command there. The Olbian seemed sound enough. It was always imperative to have the hope of a viable way back to at least temporary safety.