Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Marcus stopped. His chin raised a bit and his lips clamped.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, sir,” emerged from the tight lips.

  “Thank you for that,” Julian said. “Let me reply to your case, point by point.” He faced Marcus with his own feet planted apart, hands clasped behind his back.

  “There are reports of unrest in the north. Refugees fleeing, scary rumors. All the more reason we need to go see what’s happening. The trouble itself may be distant from the Empire, but the refugees are pounding at our door. Did you know, they are so many now that they’re being housed in camps in Moesia? No, I can see you did not. The trouble may be distant, but its consequences are immediate. Rome needs to know the cause of the trouble. We cannot operate from rumor.”

  Julian paused, but Marcus said nothing. It was the commander’s turn, his posture said plainly enough.

  “You have lost two scouts, and for this I am truly sorry, but it’s no more than normal risk while operating beyond the limes. Moreover, Valens still needs his warriors, and he will have them. If there truly is unrest in the north, then it’s an opportunity for us. The kings may welcome a safe refuge behind the Great River, the security of being a federated tribe under the protection of Rome. You see, I do agree with you that it sounds like trouble up north. But people rarely look for protection in times of peace. Therefore, we should go north with all due haste and invite the other leaders to follow their King of All Tribes into the welcoming arms of Rome.

  “Thus do I argue, Tribune. I don’t ask for your response; this isn’t a debate. I asked for your opinion and you gave it. Now I give you my decision, which is to repeat my order of the day.”

  Marcus frowned, ever so slightly, before saying “Yes, sir,” and marching stiffly away.

  Julian rubbed at his eyes. A dull ache still lay at the back of his head and his stomach was sour. He had hidden behind the authority of his office, and he knew why. His arguments were good ones, better than Marcus’, but they weren’t the real reasons. His real reasons were not military ones.

  Avitus brought in food and sat at the table, saying nothing. He pushed the maps out of the way, still saying nothing.

  Julian glowered at him. “You think I’m wrong?”

  Avitus shrugged and began eating.

  “My position is better, Avi. I have reasons, but Marcus has only worries.”

  “Mmph.”

  “You know I hate it when you won’t argue with me, little bird.”

  Avitus made a point of chewing.

  “North?” The slave did not look up from his food as he said this.

  “Yes, north. What, have you forgotten directions as well?”

  “South seems a happier choice.”

  Julian smiled. Now he had his argument.

  “I can’t go back yet, Avi. That miserable drunk up there on the hill doesn’t have fifty thousand warriors. He probably never did.”

  “Neander says he did, and Valens believes him.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I can’t go home yet. I need Valens’ protection against my enemies and I won’t get that if I come back with ten thousand instead of fifty thousand. Even an emperor can work out that sum.”

  “How far north?”

  “I don’t know,” Julian said. “Call it a hunch, though I do have a reason if I have to provide one.”

  Avitus looked up from his food. “Which is?”

  Julian shook his head. He tried to be honest with Avitus when he could, not least because he was dishonest with most everyone else, himself included. He relied on his slave to be rational when he himself was not.

  Images of a hill, a sword, a woman in white, tumbled behind his eyes. He blinked them away.

  “Something calls to me.”

  The two were silent for a moment; Avitus because he was waiting for Julian, and Julian because he was searching for the words. In the silence, horns sounded meal time. He remembered other days, in his father’s quarters, listening to those same clear tones.

  “I can’t say what it is, Avi. Maybe it’s my luck calling, but there is something I need to do, and it’s somewhere up north. It scratches at my gut. Whatever it is, it’s urgent. I can’t explain it, but neither can I dismiss it.”

  Avitus took another bite of food.

  “Whatever it is, it will have to wait,” Julian said. “We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow.”

  That night he dreamed about the woman in white. She stood alone at the top of a hill and she was surrounded by shapes that leaped at her like wild dogs at a stag. In her hand was a shining sword that clove whatever it struck yet never lost its brilliant luster. She was brave and skilled and beautiful, but she was also outnumbered beyond all hope. He knew he had to go to her, to stand with her, even though he did not know where or how.

  Then he was no longer alone but stood at the head of a great army. Roman legions swept into the teeming horde and the grim work of war churned through his dream, more detailed and vivid than waking. This was everything he hated, everything he had spent his life avoiding, and now all these soldiers were following him into Death’s bloody jaws. His men fell by ranks and rows, cheering madly, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The more he fought, the further away the woman on the hill seemed to be. He watched, despairing, as she vanished into darkness.

  Julian groaned, turned over, and slept.

  Next morning, the XII moved out. Even though Julian rose at what he considered to be an early hour—he could barely see the sun above the horizon, as he pointed out to Avitus—the Cohorts were already forming into a column of march. Men began tearing down the General’s tent moments after he exited it.

  The insistent voice inside him was quieter today, as if it knew Julian was at last moving in the right direction. He told himself he was still suffering the effects of the Feast, that north was the right direction in any case because he was going to negotiate with King Athanaric. Whatever this Scouring was, it would mean a gathering of clan chiefs. All the important men in one place, what he had expected to find in Oppidum. Julian smiled a tight smile and nodded to himself. Valens would get his warriors.

  The camp emptied quickly, leaving only a muddy rectangle, sitting like the stamp of Rome in the middle of an empty landscape. It looked too small ever to have held so many men.

  Marcus reported that the Legion was ready. Julian nodded approval, the horns were sounded, and the march began. One wing of cavalry was ahead, as was the legion’s standard-bearer. Then came Julian, with Avitus riding alongside, then each cohort, from First to Fourth, followed by the supplies, which in turn were covered by the other wing of cavalry. It felt good to be moving, to be going somewhere, to be among this well-disciplined group of men all set to a common task. It cheered him, despite the weather.

  He rode a chestnut stallion, a temperamental beast with a powerful neck, handed to him by a cavalry trooper who appeared to find something amusing about it. The animal kept trying to charge ahead, and Julian spent some time teaching it which of the two of them was in charge. After several vigorous arguments, he managed to get the horse to settle down enough to ease back to the First Cohort without embarrassing himself.

  He wanted to have a conversation with his First Tribune, to get behind that stony mask the man wore. He knew there must be more to Marcus than a grim face and a knowledge of army regulations.

  “Salve, Marcus Salvius,” Julian called out as he drew near. Marcus marched easily, in rhythm with his men. A brown cloak as big as a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Bits of Roman red peeked out between.

  “Salve, General Metellus,” the First Tribune replied without looking up.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer a horse?” Julian asked, to be asking something.

  “I prefer to march with my men, sir. Horses are for troopers, sir.” He paused, then added, “and Generals.”

  Julian chose not to pursue that any further. If the First wanted to wear down his own feet rather than a horse’s, that was his busi
ness.

  “What do you think of Rome's new ally?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t presume to judge, General,” said Marcus.

  This was no fun at all. Julian decided to prompt the Tribune a bit.

  “I will. Fritigern is dilatory, duplicitous, and dangerous,” he said. “He probably never could have delivered fifty thousand warriors, and Neander’s a fool twice over: first for believing it and then for reporting it. I'll be surprised if the king can deliver his own household. What do you say, First?”

  He watched as Marcus tried to decide how much to say, how far to trust his new general.

  “I say I agree with you about the king, sir.”

  The First Tribune, Julian thought to himself, had a curious way of making every sentence sound like the end of a conversation.

  He gave up and eased further back along the line of march. He cursed the weather, just for form, argued with his horse again, and settled in for the day. The men of the First Cohort started up a marching song and the rest of the legion soon joined in. The rhythm of the song aligned with the rhythm of marching feet; even Julian’s horse fell into step.

  Late that afternoon the Legion camped. Scouts arrived and reported, but Julian paid little attention. He and Avitus stood about, a little awkward and unsure what to do with themselves while the General’s tent was being erected. It was sinking in to him how long this could all take.

  “We could be at this game for weeks, Avi.”

  “Agreed,” said Avitus. “And then think of this: take too long, and Emperor Valens will be back from his war in Asia. And do you know what he will ask?”

  “What,” Julian said, without interest.

  “He'll ask: where are my barbarians, Varus?”

  “Oh, very funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Little bird, I have no intention of getting lost in a forest, but I can't answer for the fate of impertinent slaves.”

  Even before camp was established, officers began bringing him reports. He listened to them wearily and remembered none of them. It was drab, mechanical. Not, he reflected, any fun at all. At least he ate well.

  He went to bed early that night, worn out, surprised at how tired he was. Tomorrow would be better, he told himself. Tomorrow the landscape, the allies, the malaise—none of it would eat away at him as it had done today.

  He fell asleep, and dreams swept into his tent from the north. He stood in the midst of a dark sea under a sun that gave no light. Dark waves swept toward him without ever breaking. The waves became something with claws, and he woke up sweating and chilled. He stared around the light-less tent, as if those dark waves were just outside, then he lay down once more and slept.

  Then he dreamed the whole thing again.

  Winter clung to the land as if it knew its remaining days were few. Clouds hung low in the sky, sullen and threatening, but at least the rain had stopped. Horses stamped and steamed in the chill air, while the men went about their tasks with Roman efficiency.

  Julian watched two thousand men pull up their stakes, load their gear, and form themselves into cohorts and columns, leaving behind another Roman rectangle: fossa and viae. The scene fascinated him. It occurred to him that he had grown up in a disorderly world. Constantinople had seemed to him a model of order, because it was a dance whose every step he knew. This legion, though, had the simplicity and elegance of a machine. In a dance, each move is a flourish, but here each move was a necessity. As the trumpets sounded and the soldiers began to move out, Julian looked back at the empty camp, as he had the day before. He pictured these camps stretching out along their line of march like the footprints of some enormous giant. He imagined similar trails across Dacia, across Asia and Africa and Europa, all around Our Sea: rectangular footprints marking the stride of Rome. He felt he was a part of something bigger than himself. Then, being Julian, he dismissed the thought with a grin.

  He refused to become sentimental.

  His dreams continued to worry at him, though, because now they wouldn’t stay in bed. They kept reappearing at odd moments, without warning. One moment he’d be riding along and at the corner of his eye he’d see the shadow of teeming shapes, or a bright sword flash, or a woman in white standing alone in a dark forest. He’d turn, and the scene would be gone. Each time, it was like waking from an intense but half-remembered dream, leaving his emotions roiling. It felt as if the world around him were continuing in its ordinary way, but he alone could see sinister forces moving behind the façade. The sensation was obviously nonsense, and yet it refused to go away. He wondered if that horrible liquor at the feast hadn’t poisoned his mind somehow.

  He didn’t want to broach the subject directly, but that evening in camp he asked Avitus.

  “Did we meet a woman, back in Oppidum?”

  “Alas, no,” Avitus replied. “I believe there were females present, but we met none.”

  Julian pondered. Avitus pondered the pondering and suspected something was troubling his master.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I keep thinking that I did. A beautiful woman, all in white.”

  “I’m quite sure I would remember that.”

  “Then why do I remember it?”

  “Wishful thinking?”

  “Damn you, Avi, it troubles me.”

  “And you trouble me, Master, but I do not wish damnation upon you.”

  Julian shot him a sour look.

  “Oh wait,” Avitus said, “maybe you saw her after the feast.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you said all manner of strange things, on the walk–on the stagger—back to camp.”

  “Like what?” Julian felt a pull against his insides.

  “Babbling, mostly. You made quite a fuss over somebody in wolf pelts. And you seemed to think someone was in trouble and you had to go help. At the time, I presumed you meant it was you who were in trouble.”

  Julian said nothing to this. The tug at his insides was stronger, a feeling of urgency that made him squirm in his seat.

  “Are you all right?”

  Avitus was looking at him, concern furrowing his brow. Julian tried to grin.

  “Sure. Just trying to … remember.” He tried the smile again, but judging from Avitus’ face, he didn’t pull it off. “Damn barbarian swill,” he said earnestly.

  “Vere,” Avitus agreed.

  They both decided, without saying anything more, to leave it there. Presently, Julian pleaded he was tired. Later, as he lay in bed, sleepless, he stared at the roof of the tent visualizing a woman who wore white and wielded a shining sword. She was real; he had no doubt of it. She was real and her trouble was real, and he needed to find her and help her. This was undeniable. And was undeniably crazy. He knew that, but the feeling would not go away. Peril loomed, and all he could say for sure was that he needed to go into it. He fell asleep still staring at the tent.

  The days were starting to take on a shape: a quick meal, then into the saddle. Especially in the mornings, the men sometimes broke into marching songs. These were either boastful or obscene or both, and in some of the tunes Julian thought he heard echoes of the drinking songs he’d learned at the Inn of the White Dog, his favorite haunt back in Constantinople. The easy comradeship among the men was attractive to him, like the easy conversation among groups at the White Dog. He could see himself part of that. Not the Army, of course. Army was all endless reports and protocol and foolish rules. Bawdy songs, though, were something worthwhile. He found himself humming along and ignored the curious looks from Avitus.

  As they marched, the hills grew steadily nearer to the east. At first they were brown, bare of habitation or vegetation. Later, they sprouted scrub oak and rowan, then pine trees began to appear, cloaking the hills with green. The hills grew in height and crowded more closely together, forming a wall against the vast mysteries of the eastern steppes.

  He began taking a tour of the encampment each evening. By the end of the day he was heartily sick
of reports and requests, so he walked the camp. He wrapped himself in a plain cloak and for the most part managed to pass unrecognized in the darkness. If anyone approached, he feigned conversation with Avitus.

  By this means, he was able to listen in on camp gossip, at least in fragments. He couldn’t linger in any one place too long, lest he be discovered. If the men knew their General was eavesdropping, they would no longer speak so freely. He wanted to know more about this Legion. He felt he had climbed aboard some strange beast, which he must ride to some distant land, and felt he should know more about this beast.

  For the most part, camp talk was camp talk: the food was lousy, and there wasn’t enough of it. The weather was lousy, and there was too much of it. The soldiers were chronically short of money, which did not prevent them from gambling whenever the chance offered, and their officers were alternately fools or tyrants.

  Every once in a while, through the thicket of complaints and ribbing and bad jokes, emerged slivers of insight. He heard how deeply the men loathed General Neander, because his own foolishness had made the Legion seem a fool, and they resented this. Julian worried that he himself might turn out to be thought a fool, then was surprised at himself for worrying. When they spoke of Marcus Salvius, he heard great respect mingled with a careful affection. They rarely called him by name: he was simply the Old Man. Julian was a little envious.

  The men had no regard for the locals, Dacians or Thervings, but they spoke uneasily in vague terms about something terrible lurking in the wild lands, some sort of monster that tore men apart. They laughed at the stories, but the laughter was nervous and thin, and the subject soon changed. This made him think of the dark shapes in his dreams. Were the gods sending him visions? It was an absurd thought for Julian, who was certain the gods were nothing more than legends.

  Most troubling was, the men complained about going north. What was the new General about, anyway? This whole expedition was just to save some spoiled brat’s ass in the courts. It’s all because the Emperor had been away so long. If Valens were here, things would shape up quick, by damn. This talk, aimed squarely at him, he could not shrug off.