‘Wait, wait!’ Ballista found himself shouting. Unconsciously, he dragged his dagger an inch or so from its sheath and snapped it back, repeated the procedure with the sword on his left hip, then touched his fingertips lightly on the healing stone tied to his scabbard.

The longboats cut through the water. Ballista had ranged the artillery for a hundred and fifty paces, the limit of effective arrow-shot. He cursed himself for not thinking to place some marker out in the harbour. Gallus had done so at Novae. He had done the same at Arete. Allfather, he was a fool. It was harder to judge distances over water, and at night.

‘Light the missiles.’

Along the wall, bowmen touched their fire arrows into the torches. A smell of burning. From behind came louder sounds of bigger things catching fire.

‘Release!’

The flaring tips of dozens of arrows shot away, bright in the night. Most fell short; some flew wildly askew. A derisive cheer started across the water.

A heartbeat or so later, a great double twang and thump from behind the wall. With a terrible whooshing, the incendiary missiles of the artillery raced overhead. They rose, then dipped and fell like meteors trailing sparks.

One dropped short. The other had the range. It did not hit a ship but splashed, hissing, into the middle of the fleet.

Cries of surprise and alarm came from the Goths. The splash of the oars faltered. The ships lost way. The Gothic reiks were bellowing at their warriors. In no time, the oars restored their rhythm. The longboats surged forward again.

Arrows whickered out. One or two were finding targets. Here and there, red fire blossomed momentarily on the boats, before being doused by the crews.

Ballista could hear the squeal of the winches dragging back the arms of the artillery. How long could it take? He did not look round. All his attention was on the still, dark water in front of the leading longships.

Suddenly, with a terrible splintering and tearing unmissable above the din, one of the leading longboats shuddered to a complete halt. Those behind it swerved. Two of them collided. Yells of consternation from the Goths. Another boat embedded itself on a sunken stake. The longboat behind it rammed into its stern.

The water creamed, as the crews dug their blades into the water, desperately bringing the longboats to a halt. Arrows continued to hiss among them. Confusion reigned in the harbour. Some reiks and warriors roared forward, others screamed retreat. Some boats turned, uncertainly. Most lay dead in the water.

The double twang and thump came again. The great burning missiles arced through the night. One fell almost dangerously short, spinning down to fizz and sink just beyond the dock. But the other, as if guided by the hand of a god, plummeted inexorably down towards a stationary longboat. The world seemed to hush for a moment. Then it exploded in a fury of sound: the crash of timbers, the roar of flame, the pitiful screams of burning men.

There were brave men among these Goths, but it was over. The unseen dangers below the surface, the all too visible threat from the heavens, the growing accuracy of the bowmen: all made it irrevocable. Some longboats stayed in place, trying to rescue those they could from the crews of the three irreparably damaged vessels. The rest backed water, turned and hauled back towards Lade. With those from the stricken ships who had not drowned dragged on board, the last few boats fled. Arrows and intermittent artillery shot pursued them all until they were well out of range.

Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta. The chant echoed down the defences; full throated with the exhilaration of relief. Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta.

‘I am of a mind that one swallow does not make a summer,’ said Maximus.

‘For once, I am inclined to agree with you.’ Hippothous had pushed the bronze helmet to the back of his head. His eyes glittered.

That is a man who enjoys killing, Ballista thought. ‘Hippothous, gather the bodyguard and round up about fifty of the regulars here. We need to get to the Lion Harbour.’

As the men were collected, Ballista briefly inspected the artillery. As he had suspected, one of them had broken on its second shot. He praised the men there, and told them not to relax; the Goths might come again.

They pounded down a dark street. At least the grid plan of the town made directions easy. After about three hundred paces they came to the south wall of the Bouleuterion. Ballista called a stop. He told them they needed to get closed up – who knew what they would find around the next corner? But, equally pressing, he had to get his wind back. Running in full armour was always exhausting, but he was far from campaign fit, and he was not so young any more. Forty winters were taking their toll.

Turning left, the tall, many-columned edifices of the agora opened up around them. All was empty and quiet where they were, but the north end was a very different case. Men were fighting and dying along the battlements of the hastily constructed wall which blocked the quay of the Lion Harbour. The bowelclenching sounds of steel on steel, of agonized screaming, washed down the colonnades towards them.

There were some two hundred paces to go. It was too far to run; they would arrive fragmented, out of breath.

‘Form up on me,’ Ballista said. ‘We walk until I give the order.’

Nearly one hundred armoured men, close packed, stepped forward. Ballista was at their head; Maximus on his left, Hippothous his right. Going to meet something very frightening, it was hard to walk slowly. Every instinct screamed: run, get it over and done. Twenty paces gone, thirty – just let it be over.

More Gothic warriors were appearing on the wall walk. A few had fought their way down some steps and were trying to cut their way to the gate. If they got that open, it was all over.

Sixty paces, seventy. Unconsciously, Ballista quickened the pace.

A knot of Roman auxiliaries was fighting with their backs to the inside of the gate. More Goths were pressing on them. Blades flashed, rising and falling in the eerie torchlight.

Ninety paces gone, a hundred.

The fight at the gate was nearly over, but a handful of Romans was still on their feet. They could not last more than moments.

‘Charge!’ Ballista drew his sword and launched himself forward.

The paving stones hard under the soles of his boots, scabbard banging against his left leg, Ballista forced his legs faster. The weight of his shield was dragging on his left arm. Faster, faster.

Ballista had pulled clear of the line; Maximus and Hippothous half a step behind. The charge was shaping itself into an arrowhead: the wedge or boar’s snout beloved of the northern sagas.

The last Roman had been chopped down. Only twenty paces to go. Four of the Goths moved to lift the bar of the gate. The others, twenty or thirty, turned to face the onslaught.

The warrior facing Ballista set himself, long braided hair and beard, eyes glaring above a red shield. Ballista, legs pumping, shield well out, crashed straight into him. The impact stopped Ballista. The Goth staggered a step or two back. Someone thumped into Ballista’s back. Knocked forward, the northerner’s shield dipped as he fought for balance. The Goth raised his blade for the killing blow. Dropping the shield, still off balance, Ballista side-stepped off his left leg. The Gothic blade thrummed just past his ankle. It rang, sparking on the stone. Feet slipping, still toppling forward, Ballista shot like a ferret between his opponent and the next warrior in line.

Not glancing back, a hand to the ground, Ballista regained his balance and let his momentum carry him on.

The Goths at the gate, their backs to Ballista, strained as one. The bar lifted a fraction. Ballista aimed at the nearest warrior. At the last moment, the Goth looked over his shoulder – too late. At a flat run, Ballista drove the point of his sword two-handed into the small of the man’s back. Mail rings snapped and the steel went deep. Ballista’s momentum crashed them both against the wooden boards.

Ballista wrenched his blade free. Some instinct made him spin to his right, wheeling the blade backhanded. It deflected the thrust inches from his nose. The impact ran through his arms. He dropped to one knee and brought his blade back, scything at his opponent’s knees. The Goth leapt backwards.

Ballista rose to his feet carefully. For what seemed an eternity, they watched each other, like fighting cocks after the first pass. Then a blow from behind took the Goth in the back of the neck. As he collapsed, Ballista heard the thump of the bar falling back into place.

Maximus grinned at Ballista. The Hibernian’s front was a bloody mess, none of it his own. Ballista smiled back and took the shield proffered by Hippothous. The Greek had pushed his archaic helmet back again. He was whooping with joy. So much for your Hellenic self-control, thought Ballista. He looked around the shambles. There was not a Goth still fighting inside the wall. Those that still moved, and some that did not, were being cut to pieces.

‘I am thinking it is still not safe,’ said Maximus.

From the top of the wall, Ballista looked out and recreated the events from what he saw. Just one longship was skewered and broken out in the standing. The stakes had failed. He remembered the men embedding them saying that while the Lion Harbour was shallow, its bottom was thick mud. The wretched stakes must have toppled or sunk.

Sixteen double-prowed ships were moored at the dock, a skeleton crew on each. The majority of the Goths were just in front. They never liked to venture too far from their boats. The warriors on land had formed a shieldburg. The first rank was kneeling, their shields planted on the ground; the second standing, the bases of their shields resting on the bosses of those in front; the ones behind holding their shields overhead. It was a daunting sight, as firm and unyielding as a rock, virtually arrow proof.