Ballista wondered how many champions were dancing. Although few compared with the whole force, it was always important to know their numbers. Little heartened a northern war band more than seeing Woden the Terrible One move within many of those who would fight in the front rank. Experienced in war as Ballista was, trying to construct the preparations for battle from just noises and a few glimpses was disconcerting. Something from the philosophy he had been forced to study in his youth at the imperial court flickered in his thoughts.
Wild, high, individual howls came to Ballista’s ears. In his mind’s eye he saw the champions. Whirling, leaping, their long hair flying. Some were drooling, ropes of saliva in their beards. Baying at the sky, eyes dead to all compassion and humanity.
The hooming gave way to a rough, resonant roar. It grew and grew until it drowned out all else and then burst like thunder. The barritus faded, then rose again. Filled with wordless menace, the war chant reverberated back from the walls of the ravine. The strength of the barritus foretold the battle. Every northman knew that in his heart. As it echoed, distorted around the slopes, Ballista could not judge its true potency. It was like hearing the roar of the distant crowd rolling down one of the underground passageways of the arena, unable to guess its significance.
The Goths silhouetted at the top of the incline shifted into a shield-burg, the rear ranks roofing the formation with their linden boards, locking it tight, metal boss to boss. Hunched over like malignant troglodytes, they began to shuffle forward.
‘Soon, the much killing start,’ said Tarchon. The prospect did not seem to displease him.
‘Tell me,’ Maximus said, ‘what do you think of dwarves?’
Ballista smiled. ‘Ugly and misshapen, full of greed and lust, best avoided, so old Calgacus told me.’
‘Sure, he would have known,’ said Maximus.
‘But no man is their equal at a forge. The goddess Freyja gave herself to the four Brisings in return for a necklace they had made.’
‘Actually,’ said Maximus, ‘I meant midgets. I saw some exhibited in Rome once. Funny little fellows, they looked quite sad, although quite possibly full of lust and all the rest.’
The brassy ring of the trumpets of the defenders cut through further discussion of homunculi, mythical or real.
A dense cloud of arrows took flight from the walls. The visible shield-burg of Goths halted, seemed to contract. The barritus faltered. Ballista heard the awful whisp-whisp sound of the falling shafts. A few thunked into the close-lapped shields. The vast majority fell out of sight. Ballista could not see any Gothic casualties. The shield-burg edged forward. The barritus swelled again. Another volley came from the town. Again the shield-burg stopped, shrunk in on itself, then resumed its slow progress. This time, it left behind two of its number; one limping away towards the camp, the other motionless. Shooting from the walls became general. Hidden from Ballista’s view, Gothic archers replied.
The advance of the Tervingi hansa was painfully slow. Again and again those that could be seen stopped; on occasion for quite a considerable time. After about a quarter of an hour they were directly up-slope from the winery, only about a third of the way to the walls. There was no evident reason for their sluggishness. The arrow storm on them was not intense; they had not taken many losses. Ballista conjectured that the broken terrain of the abandoned town was forcing the Goths to stop frequently to dress their line. Although, tantalizingly, it could be the result of some other development somewhere else on the battlefield. Certainly, now the barritus had faded to a murmur, he could hear confused shouting in the distance.
‘Like being in the slave seats at the spectacles,’ said Maximus. ‘Lots of noise, but you can see fuck all.’
‘Like being a prisoner confined from childhood in a dark cave, shackled so your only impressions of the outside world are shadows on the wall,’ said Ballista.
‘What the fuck are you talking about now?’ Maximus demanded.
‘It is an image in Plato’s Republic.’
‘I am not claiming to be a philosopher, but your love of wisdom might seem just a tiny bit intemperate.’
‘Intemperate? You have learned some fine words.’
‘Yes, I would not have you thinking I had wasted my time in the imperium on drink and women.’
There was a distant cheering. The Goths started to move faster. As they did so, their formation necessarily loosened. More arrows flickered out from the defenders. More Tervingi began to fall. Their advance now was marked by increasing numbers of their wounded and dead. Yet the barritus returned, as far as Ballista could tell, confident, if not exultant. The Goths were running; no longer in an ordered shield-burg but more of a pack. They were fast closing the town wall.
‘Flag! Green flag!’ Tarchon said.
There it was up above the citadel, alongside the red war standard. No one had noticed it being raised. The triple blast of the bucinator must have been lost in the uproar.
‘Now proper man-killing,’ said Tarchon. He sounded relieved. To be fair, Ballista thought, in part the Suanian might just be looking forward to getting out of the malodorous winery. You could not blame him for that.
Cramped and stiff, Ballista clattered down to the floor. The young Danubian Diocles was waiting, his broad peasant face imperturbable.
‘Draw the men up on the terrace, a column facing south, as we said, the Olbians at the head.’ The majority of the townsmen who had volunteered were of high status. Most of them wore armour, mail or scale, cut to suit a rider. With the exception of Diocles, the crew of the Fides were protected only by helmet and shield.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Ballista slung his shield over his back. He fumbled with the laces of his helmet. Gods, but he was always clumsy at these moments, his fingers awkward with fear. He loosened first the dagger on his right hip, then the sword on his left; finally, he touched the healing stone tied to his scabbard. The smooth amber of the latter felt cool in the sun. The long-established ritual calmed Ballista a little.
‘Maximus and Tarchon with me. We will reconnoitre.’
Followed by the other two, Ballista clambered up to the next terrace. It ended in a steep bank, about ten paces high. Pulling at the coarse grass, he scrambled to the top and looked over.
Gothic standards still flew over the tall mound of the kurgan away to his left. There were a few individuals left up there, more at its base. The latter were probably just non-combatants and the wounded. Across the plateau, through the ruins of the ancient upper town, a scatter of the injured limped back towards the kurgan. Many of them were supported by one or more evidently unhurt companions. Helping the wounded to safety was an excuse as old as Homer. Ballista felt his heart lift. Not every Gothic warrior was Woden-inspired. Better still, knowing there was no relief column that could come to save Olbia, the Tervingi had committed all their number to the storm. There was no Gothic reserve.
Off to the right, the assault was being pressed hard. The Goths were a thick, black smear at the foot of the wall, clotted more thickly where there were ladders or ropes. At one point to the east, near where the wall vanished down towards the river, some of them had got on to the wall. Nearer at hand, they had taken the gate. There, they flowed in like a turgid river being sucked down into a sink-hole. Apart from the one toehold on the wall, it was all as good as could have been hoped.