Stopping, Ballista peered around the corner of the winery. Nothing moved. Without words, he told Maximus to go north-west, to a point just behind where he thought the Goth might have reached. He himself would go further north in case their quarry should avoid the Hibernian and double back. Maximus grinned. Ballista found he was smiling back. As one, they drew their swords, nodded and moved out of the lee of the building.
Ballista started to run. The fresh spring air, aromatic with blossom and tinged with cooking, was good after the stench of inside. The sun on him, his fatigue and the years fell away. He felt invigorated. When he remembered, he counted fifty or so paces and then pushed through the next gap in the vines. He crossed to the next terrace and leapt down. Landing, blade in hand, he looked south. There was no sign of the Goth, or the others.
In a fighting stance, taking short steps, feet close together for balance, Ballista went to the nearest cover. It was another fruit tree; not budding yet, probably a plum. Crouching down, he smiled. Now it was him seeking concealment behind something too small. He had left his dark cloak in the winery, but his mail was blackened and should not betray him in the patchy sunlight. He planted his sword between him and the tree. There was blood on the hilt from his palm.
Ballista waited, peering around one side of the trunk then the other, listening hard. The wind sighed through the foliage; birds sang. If the other two had already despatched the Goth and made Ballista look foolish by coming to get him, so much the better.
The sun was warm on his shoulders. It was going to be a hot day for so early in the season. A sudden sound of something big crashing through the vines came from not far away. It came again, from his right, the east, from somewhere below him. Ballista got to his feet, hefted his weapon. There, on the terrace below, a man in a brown tunic was running in his direction, long blond hair and green cloak billowing. He was only some forty paces away.
Ballista hacked through two lines of staked vines and jumped down the four or so foot to the next level. Regaining his footing, he brought his blade up. The Goth did not break stride. He lunged straight for Ballista’s chest. A two-handed parry turned the point to Ballista’s left. The Goth ran into Ballista with his shoulder. The momentum knocked the breath from Ballista, sent him back reeling. He collided with some close-tied vines behind him, half staggered forward again. The Goth swung at the left side of his unhelmeted head. Ballista blocked. The impact jarred up his arms. The young Tervingi warrior was good. In an instant, he had reversed his sword and cut down from Ballista’s right. Another block. Again the juddering shock. Ballista gasped air back into his chest. The youth aimed a kick at his balls. Still part entangled in the greenery, Ballista twisted. The boot hit him high on the outside of his left thigh. A sickening surge of pain. He stumbled, fighting to remain upright. His leg was dead. It could give way at any moment.
The young Goth pressed his advantage. Feinting high to the left, he altered the blow and chopped down towards Ballista’s ankle. Awkwardly, Ballista brought his own blade down just in time and desperately hobbled away from the tangling clutches of the vines. If ever he needed Maximus, it was now. Him or the demented Suanian Tarchon.
The Tervingi warrior stepped back, watchful but confident. He knew there was nothing his opponent could do to prevent him making his escape. He pushed the long fair hair out of his face and was about to turn to go when the recognition showed in his eyes.
‘You — Oath-breaker, the murderer — Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. I saw you at Miletus.’ He laughed. ‘If Gunteric had known you were here, he would have come himself. Now I will take him your head.’
‘His sons tried.’ Ballista answered him in his own tongue. He had to buy some time. He flexed his left leg gently, willing the feeling back.
‘Respa was a fool. But Tharuaro was a great warrior. You killed him with a low trick, the cowardly act of a nithing.’
‘I am alive, they are dead.’
‘You live as a slave of the Romans. Now you will die as a skalks at my hand.’ The young warrior spat, changed his grip.
‘Tharuaro was the fool.’ Ballista went to shift his stance. His leg nearly buckled. Where in Hel was Maximus? ‘No one can outlive what the Norns have spun. The gods had taken Tharuaro’s wits.’
‘Enough talk.’ The Tervingi dropped into the Ox guard — half turned, left leg forward, sword held high, palm down, jutting out like the horn of an ox — good for outmanoeuvring an incapacitated opponent.
Ballista dropped into a defensive posture: side on, weight on his rear right leg, sword two-handed out in front.
The Goth stepped right then left. Ballista countered; slow, lame and favouring his good leg but never taking his eyes from the bright tip of the three foot of steel which sought to end his life. Almost all men make a tiny involuntary movement before they launch an attack. Where the fuck were Maximus and that halfwit Tarchon?
A slight tremor in the steel, and then the Tervingi cut down at Ballista’s leading leg. A bad mistake fighting without a shield. Automatically, Ballista started to withdraw the leg and shape a riposte to the head. Allfather, his bad leg. Clumsily, Ballista checked, dragged his blade down and across. The ring of steel on steel. The pain was excruciating as much of his weight came on his left leg.
The Goth withdrew, reversed his blade and swung it underhand. Flat-footed, panting with distress, Ballista was driven nearly to his knees as he caught the attack a hand’s breadth from his face. Instinctively, he flicked his own spatha at the young man’s legs. Almost gracefully, the Goth leapt back out of reach.
Again they circled, the Goth driving Ballista this way and that. The Goth was moving well; Ballista badly. The Goth had age on his side. All Ballista had was his mailshirt and experience.
Ballista made a pass at the young raider’s head. Not trusting his leg, he knew it would prove ineffectual, but it was important not to surrender all initiative. What was that sound?
‘You suck cock like Tharuaro? You Goths are said to love it.’
The young warrior laughed. ‘Insults will not help you, Oath-breaker.’
‘Sucking cock and running like girls — you miss the northlands my grandfather chased you from?’
The sound again — running feet. The Goth heard it, too. His eyes flicked away. It was enough. Ballista lunged and jabbed to the face. The Goth flinched, instinctively covering himself with his sword. One-handed, Ballista slashed his sword down, almost vertical. It just caught the outside of the Goth’s left knee. The young man howled, doubled up. Dropping his weapon, his hands clutched the wound. Ballista’s leg gave. He staggered a few steps, righted himself and hobbled back.
The Goth looked up.
Maximus and Tarchon were nearly up with them.
The young Tervingi looked at his fallen sword, then at Ballista’s blade, and abandoned the idea. ‘I will see you in Hel.’
Ballista smashed the edge of his blade down into the face of the youth.
Maximus and Tarchon came to a halt, breathless.
‘About fucking time.’
IX
Olbia
‘If I am remembering rightly,’ said Maximus, ‘you northerners will be going one of two ways when you are dead.’
Ballista shifted slightly where he was sitting astride a roof beam of the winery. He had been there a long time, and his leg ached. He made a vague noise of assent.
‘You are either finding a good home with your gods, an eternity of fighting all day and drinking all night — and I think there may be women there to take care of your other needs — or you will be rotting forever in a dark, cold hall presided over by some hideous old hag.’