Ballista got them all into some sort of order. Hippothous would lead. The five armed slaves would keep the women and children together. Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus, with the two diogmitai, would bring up the rear. If anyone got separated, they were to go out of the Magnesian Gate and make their way to the villa of Corvus just south of town, then over the mountains to Priene. Ballista told them this twice, slowly, trying to make it stick despite the darkness and the fear.

Through the door, they shuffled down the alley and turned left up the Sacred Way. There were people there now; running, jostling. A man ran into Maximus, who casually punched him to the ground.

Keeping moving, Ballista glanced back over his shoulder, down towards the library of Celsus. Most of those in sight were Ephesians – darting here and there in their terror, like animals before a bush fire. But beyond them, not far from the temple of Hadrian, were men with steel in their hands. Some of the Goths were turning aside to loot, but the majority were pressing purposefully up the hill. They must have heard about the wealth to be found in the temples and public buildings situated around the civic agora which lay between Ballista’s party and the Magnesian Gate. Someone must have told them. There had been stories of locals going over to the Goths. A persistent rumour spoke of a Greek called Chrysogonus, a leading man from one of the cities up towards the Black Sea, throwing his lot in with the pirates, guiding them on their raids. It was said he had led the Goths to the sack of Nicomedia a few years earlier.

Ballista stumbled; the pavement was uneven. He could see the backs of the crowd ahead. He felt a surge of fear until he saw the heads of his sons. The rag-tag column was moving too slowly. The Goths would overhaul them before the civic agora. There was no point in urging more speed; it would just cause panic, further delay. There was nothing else for it: the Goths would somehow have to be delayed. They would have to be faced.

Not far, and the path bent to the right. It was narrow there, further straitened by the fallen statues and drums of columns which had been dragged to the sides. The part-ruined monument of Memmius jutted into the road on one side. There was a fine fig tree on the other. The distance between them could be held by four determined men side by side. Ballista shouted for Maximus to push his way through to Hippothous. Have the column halted just beyond the monument. Make sure Hippothous kept them together. Get back down here.

Ballista positioned himself, Calgacus and the two diogmitai across the path. He was fighting to control his breathing. Maximus was right: he had been living too easy. Having checked that the familiae were shepherded together where he wanted them, Ballista drew his sword and hefted his shield. He was the right-hand man, hard up against the big ashlar blocks of the base of the monument. Calgacus was to his left, the two diogmitai beyond that. Maximus reappeared. The Hibernian took his accustomed place at Ballista’s left shoulder. Calgacus shuffled over. The end one of the diogmitai dropped out of the line. Ballista shouted at him to hold himself ready to replace anyone who fell. The man of the watch waved his agreement, his demeanour less than enthusiastic.

The Goths were still a distance away. Ballista used the time to make sure of his bearings. To the right was the monument of Memmius. The earthquake had done it no good. Of the upper storeys, only a few isolated columns and fragments of masonry remained. The lower two storeys were heavily damaged; much of the sculpture had crashed from the walls, and truncated caryatids were left hanging, legless and deformed. The thing was a ruin, but it guarded his right. To the left of his men was the fig tree, up against a wall. No way round there. Hold the line, and they would be safe. Far off to the left, across a square and above a big imperial temple, Ballista could see the dark bulk of the mountain, its safety very far away. If the line broke, they would all die.

Seeing the men standing across the way, the Goths pulled up about twenty paces short. In the gloom, it was impossible to judge their numbers. They were a dark phalanx, backlit by torches and more distant fires. Swords glittered in their hands; the curved outlines of shields glinted. Some of the Goths wore helmets. The raking torchlight made deep, crazed shadows in the empty pavement. Ballista noted it. The earthquake had lifted and moved the broad slabs of the road.

‘Watch your footing,’ Ballista said softly. Maximus repeated it. So did Calgacus. Ballista smiled. They had spoken in his native language. It would mean nothing to the diotigmai.

‘Come on, girls,’ called Maximus. ‘Do you want to dance, you arse-fucking cunts?’

A babble of voices. Their attention caught by the use of a dialect of their own language, the Goths all called out: a jumble of threats, boasts, questions, less certain things. An individual stepped forward. The orange-red light swam over his mailed shoulders, the steel of his helmet, the blade in his hand. His face was shadowed. His helmet was adorned with the skull of a small, fanged animal. He held up his hand, and the noise dropped.

‘I am Tharuaro, son of Gunteric. I lead the Tervingi longboats in this Gothic expedition. Who are you?’

Maximus filled his lungs but, before he could answer, Ballista restrained him.

‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim of the Angles. The Romans know me as Ballista.’

A deep muttering – hoom, hoom – came from the Goths: recognition, maybe grudging respect, but no warmth.

‘The man who was king of the Romans for a day,’ Tharuaro shouted. ‘We know you. It is lucky for you we are here. There are two crews of Borani with the fleet. They would want to eat your heart raw. But we Tervingi have no particular desire to kill you. Now, stand aside. My men have been at sea for three days, they want what they have come for.’

Ballista did not speak at once. A bat flitted between them. ‘Will you give safe passage to those with me? All of them – men, women and children?’ The bat banked back, hunting. ‘And the things we carry?’

Tharuaro snorted. ‘You are trading from a bad position, Angle.’

‘Will you take an oath to your high gods Teiws and Fairguneis?’

‘We will let those with you go unmolested. But we will take your weapons and your goods.’

‘No.’

‘Like all your people, you are a fool. Lay down your swords.’

‘No.’

‘I see five of you. There are thirty or more of us.’

‘But here only four can fight.’

Tharuaro spoke no more words to Ballista. The Gothic reiks turned his back, conferring with his men.

‘They would kill us anyway,’ Maximus said quietly. ‘Easier if we are disarmed. Fuck them.’

The Goths milled, sorting themselves out. Ballista wondered how they would go about it. If they advanced in a wedge – the boar’s snout of the north – even uphill their momentum would certainly smash through a line only one deep. But the road surface was deeply pitted, treacherous. If one man tripped, the close-packed ranks of the boar’s snout would pile up in chaos. They might find themselves sprawling at the feet of Ballista’s men. Then it would be like killing netted fish. Like killing tuna – fish that bled a lot.

Maximus’s gladius flashed as he tossed the short sword from hand to hand. Under his breath, he was singing in Latin, a Roman marching song: ‘Thousand, thousand, thousand we’ve beheaded now. One man, a thousand we’ve beheaded now. A thousand drinks, a thousand killed. So much wine no one has as the blood that he has spilt.’

Four Goths emerged from the ranks. Tharuaro was no fool. He had seen the danger posed by the road. It would be man to man.

Tharuaro had taken his place opposite Ballista. The next Goth was festooned with bracelets and necklaces, obscure amulets braided into his hair: he must be one of their priests. This gudja would face Maximus. The other two were proven warriors. Mail-coated, their arms shone with the golden rings Tharuaro or some other reiks had given them.

The Goths advanced at a walk, evenly spaced, room to use their weapons. They rolled their shoulders, flexed their necks, made passes with their blades. They moved workmanlike, a ploughman going to his team. They had done this many times before.

Ballista got into a fighting crouch: left leg forward, shield held well out, sword back and raised, the leather thong from the hilt over his wrist. He checked the paving around his feet. The stones were mainly smooth, their surfaces very shiny. A couple of paces in front, one was cracked and tilted; another just behind his right foot stuck up, uneven. He found he was muttering a prayer: Allfather, Death-blinder, Spear-thruster…

Three paces out, the Goths roared and lunged forward. Ballista’s world shrank to the few feet that enclosed him and his enemy. Tharuaro swung down a blow to the neck. Ballista hunkered down behind his shield. A sudden step, Tharuaro slid to his right knee, his blade now singing below Ballista’s guard, towards his left leg. Hurriedly, Ballista got the shield down. The impact jarred up his arm. Splinters of wood flew. Ballista brought his right wrist over, thrust at his opponent’s face. Tharuaro took the edge of the blade on the rim of his shield, forced it up.

Surging to his feet, the Goth slammed his shield-boss into Ballista’s body. Ballista’s heel caught on the uneven pavement and he staggered back, winded. Arms wide, he floundered to regain his balance. Tharuaro thrust savagely into his chest. Ballista twisted convulsively, the point of the blade punched home. A hammer blow – white, burning pain – it broke some of the close-forged metal rings, driving them into the flesh. The point snagged, then slid off across the surface of the mail coat. Tharuaro was within Ballista’s shield. Fighting for breath, the Angle let go of his shield-grip and used his left arm to draw the man in; with his right he smashed the pommel of his sword into the bearded face. A metallic snap as the nasal on the Goth’s helmet broke. A softer, more sickening sound as his nose shattered. A grunt of pain. The scent of blood.