Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  The men were on edge, skittish as colts in a thunderstorm. They needed someone to steady them, and he supposed he was the one who ought to do it, but how? He tried to think of some parallel or precedent on which he could draw, but his life in the City seemed remote to him now, as if it had happened to someone else. Certainly nothing from his first thirty years had prepared him for heartening soldiers in the face of unknown danger. Mostly it had prepared him for mocking them.

  He scowled as he walked. He had not come for this. He had no ambition except to get back to Constantinople, and no greater goal than to get Valens his damned warriors. This business of keeping up morale ought to be a job for Marcus Salvius. Or someone. Anyone but Lucius Julianus Metellus.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gambling With the Fourth

  The third night of the march, after endless reports followed by a brief meal, Julian began pacing the tent. He worried around the small space, moving in quick strides from one end to the other, picking up things at random and setting them down again. He went into his private chamber, then back out, then back in again. Avitus knew this mood well.

  “Avi, where’s my cloak?” Julian called.

  “It’s a very small tent, Master.”

  A moment later, Julian said, “I found it.”

  He emerged into the main tent, a gray cloak wrapped around him.

  “I’m going out.”

  “Did you find an inn?” Avitus pretended to look hopeful, and picked up his own brown cloak.

  “I’m bored.”

  “The news devastates me.”

  “Worse than bored, I’m anxious. I can’t just sit here. I’m sick of reports and reviews, sick of army protocol, and I can’t sleep.”

  He crossed to the tent flaps and pushed one open. “So I am going out. Bring a wine sack.”

  Avitus drew his cloak tight against the cold night air and followed his master along the via.

  “You are likely to get into trouble.”

  “I’m likely to knock you on the head.”

  “You are bored and anxious, by your own words. That means you are looking for trouble. You are a talented man, Master. You often get what you look for.”

  “You know I don’t like it when you are right, Avi.”

  “I know. I shall try to be wrong more often.”

  Julian went from one campfire to another, exactly as he would from one inn to the next back in Constantinople. Back in the City, though, the patrons did not leap to their feet and call him “sir” with a panicky edge to their voice.

  He tried to talk with them, but they retreated behind their officers, who retreated behind protocol. One fellow in the Fifth Cohort was returning from the latrine when he encountered his General. The poor man called loudly for a centurion then stood without speaking, despite all Julian could do.

  “What did you expect,” Avitus said as they left the soldier and his dumbfounded officer, “we’re not walking the docks here. There are lines.”

  “I don’t like lines,” Julian grumbled.

  “You are not required to like them, but you are expected to observe them.”

  Julian kept going. They went along the via principalis, then around the perimeter and back the length of the secundus. This was not the harbor district, Julian thought, but there was something reminiscent in the isolated light from the fires, the easy cant of men’s voices in the night, the smell of leather and canvas and horses. No place in the City was so orderly and symmetrical as this, though. The castra was like an orchard of tents, an island of Roman order in the wilds of Dacia.

  A sudden outburst of voices caught his attention. It was a distinctive mix of cursing and laughter he recognized at once. He altered course.

  “Someone’s got a game up, Avi.”

  Julian stood at the edge of the campfire for the Fourth Cohort, listening to the men. The night air was cold and his breath made little clouds in front of his face, but the faces of the men were red, perhaps with heat and perhaps with wine. Their voices were loud; they'd finished eating not long before and were engaged in the usual camp gossip about this soldier and that officer and how there was no decent grub to be had.

  He waited a few minutes more, shushing Avitus, who stood behind and was getting antsy with the cold, then stepped forward into the light.

  “Good evening gents,” he said amiably.

  A couple of men looked up casually, then with muttered curses leaped to their feet. The other men looked to see the reason for this strange behavior then likewise jumped to their feet.

  “General sir! We … we … “

  Julian smiled and motioned to wave away their confusion. “No need for all that,” he said. “I've just stopped in to ask a favor of you all.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, one of the men spoke. “Certainly, sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “The Fourth Cohort will gladly meet any request, sir. General, sir.”

  The man’s hair was iron gray and his beard was much the same. His face was creased with age and weather and battle. This man should be retired, Julian thought. I wonder what keeps him under arms. And in the Fourth, no less.

  “Are you the tribune for this outfit?”

  “I am, sir. Rufus Panneus, General, sir, Tribune of the Fourth Cohort, sir.”

  “Well, Rufus Panneus, first off you need to leave out a few sirs. I’ve had more than my fill for the day. Call me General and that will be enough, all right?”

  “Yes, si..., yes General.”

  “Fine. D'you mind if I sit down?”

  “Fetch a stool there!” the man called out.

  “No need. I'll sit with the men here. Got a game up, boys?”

  Eight men, who had been dicing, stared silently, expressionless. A game? What was a “game”?

  “Oh please,” Julian said. “Look. I've been listening to reports from officers for hours. If I have to hear one more report I'm going to start chewing my sandals.” This brought a suppressed chuckle from somewhere. “So I slipped out. Me and my adjutant here. We've brought our own wine, and all we ask is to have a friendly game or two so we can wash the sound of reports from our ears.”

  Still no takers, though the men were looking around at each other now. Generals, after all, did not gamble with lowly Fourthers.

  “I've been over to the Second Cohort,” Julian said, “but everyone there's already asleep.” More chuckles. “I've been to the First Cohort, but, well, they're the ones making most of the reports. So honestly, boys. Won't you let your poor General unwind a bit?”

  One of the soldiers finally had the courage to speak. “General, sir … er, General … I mean …”

  “It's all right, soldier, just go straight to the point.”

  “Yes, well, you see, we don't play for real high stakes, you know, and ….”

  “Oh never mind about that,” Julian interrupted, “I've played in all kinds of venues and I know how to match my purse to the game. Don’t worry, you won’t lose your country villa tonight.”

  More looks were exchanged, then with a kind of resignation, one said “Sure, General, we'd be pleased to have you.”

  “Fine, then,” Julian said. “What've we got going?”

  The game was familiar. Not the kind played in the palaces on the First and Second Hills, but very much the same as played on the docks of the Heraklion. These boys called it Mia, but down in the wharf district it was Liar's Dice. Julian slipped into the game like slipping into a pair of worn sandals. He padded around a while, enjoying the feel, not trying to get anywhere in particular. The night air was cold and damp, but the fire was hot, the wine was strong, and the tumble of dice had a way of warming a fellow.

  They watched the way he played, and he saw them watching. Though the money stakes were trivial for him, he knew they would not want him to lose intentionally, so he actually had to be on top of his game. They had sharp eyes and knew a few tricks. He had to watch all the faces closely, both for suspicion from those who won too easily, and for de
speration from those who lost too heavily. Despite his best efforts, one fellow went broke and had to drop out. He knew better than to offer to stake him. He made a show of studying faces. He carefully scratched his nose when he was bluffing, then changed the tell when two of the men caught on.

  It wasn't too long before the natural dynamics of gambling loosened tongues. They asked him about the king and about the mission. He asked them about their families and their gear, about their battle experience and how long they’d been with the XII. Their answers were guarded at first, but after some had won a few rounds, they opened up. Still, when the question came, it caught Julian by surprise.

  “Did you really burn down Plotinus' house?”

  “Jupiter's balls, Strados!” Rufus Panneus cried. “Beg pardon, General.”

  Julian took time to consider, then shook the dice and said, “Plotinus' house did burn down. Tragically, Plotinus was not at home.” He said “fifty-four” and passed the dice.

  This brought a couple of chuckles from the darkness of the audience. Only six men were still dicing at this point, but much of the cohort had crowded around to watch.

  “But it wasn't intentional, despite all the rumors. No, it was much worse than that.”

  The next man smiled and said sixty-two. Julian continued, not seeming to pay much attention to faces or numbers called. “It was an accident. I merely tried to throw a good scare into a pompous, fatuous, officious dog's tail of a Senator.”

  “They say you dressed up.”

  “That I did, soldier. Myself and three associates, including the good Avitus here.” The slave was standing on the other side of the campfire. He acknowledged the looks with a brief nod.

  “We have, ah, friends among the theater community. Earlier in the evening Plotinus had been telling mad tales about monstrous creatures coming out of the wilds—from Dacia, as a matter of fact. When others spoke more reasonably, he became insistent to the point of rudeness. So, after the unpleasantness, my friends whipped up costumes—quite good ones, I assure you—and proceeded to pay a visit to the portly Plotinus.

  “All went perfectly. We managed to put the entire household in an uproar, with highly satisfying screaming from the women. Unfortunately, one of the slaves upset a night lamp, the fire caught bedding ablaze, and the next thing you know, it was arson.”

  Julian shook his head. “Alarms sounded and people came rushing in from every direction. For a while it looked like we would be trapped there, but despite the crowds I contrived to elude them.”

  He smiled to see Avitus scowl at this.

  “Of course, Plotinus immediately assumed I was to blame,” Julian went on, “and I became the target of a legal action that was certain to end badly—arson at night, you know. Happily, this posting offered itself.”

  “You mean you took command of the XII to get out of the City?”

  “Not quite.” He grinned. “Oh don't look so disappointed. I'm here to get Emperor Bandy-Legs his warriors and get all you poor wretches back to civilization as soon as I can manage it.”

  The use of the Emperor’s nickname brought more laughter.

  “Don't tell me you actually like to camp in a frozen swamp?”

  The men admitted that no, they didn't much like it.

  “Well then. I present myself as your savior. And you, fellow, are lying.”

  A burly soldier, who looked like he was fresh from the fields in Thessaly, grinned. “Mia,” he said, and presented the cup. The dice showed two aces. Julian managed to look pained.

  “The pot's yours, soldier, and may you spread some of your luck around the circle.”

  “But truly, sir, folks ought not make light of the stories,” said a voice from the audience. Julian spotted him across the flames of the campfire. He was hardly more than a boy.

  “Eh?” Julian said, as he put down another bet, “and why not?” He hoped he sounded casual, but something rolled over in his gut and a voice whispered north in a dark alley of his brain.

  The game slowed. Men looked at one another. Finally, the same youth spoke again.

  “Well, sir, I ain't sayin' it's true but I ain't sayin' it ain't, if you take my meaning.”

  “I can take the meaning well enough, but I'm not sure where you want it carried.”

  The soldier retorted with a blank look.

  “A joke, soldier. Ha ha?”

  “They're real,” another man blurted out. “Least, that is, it's hard to think they ain't. Lots of people say they seen 'em.”

  “They’ve seen ‘em, you say, but what are ‘em?”

  “Well, sir, there’s a good deal of disagreement as to that. Some say they’re this and some say they’re that, and the reports are so different a fellow doesn’t know what to believe. About the only thing they all agree on is the name. ‘Cobbels,’ sir, though that may not be quite how the locals pronounce it.”

  “Hoy, Brentus, that’s not it. It’s more like ‘chobelines’.”

  “Ey, nor that neither,” said a third, and with that the men dissolved into a general discussion of phonetics and barbarian tongues. They finally returned to the point by agreeing to use a proper Latin word instead.

  Monsters.

  “Truly now,” Julian said. “Monsters? Fangs and slathering jowls and such? Centaurs?”

  “Oh well,” Brentus said, laughing with embarrassment, “I don't know about no centaurs, but we've seen signs, right enough.”

  “Signs?”

  Some of the men exchanged looks. Julian nodded encouragement. The gambling had stopped altogether. Another man ventured to speak.

  “Claw marks, sir.”

  “What do you make of them claw marks, then, eh Postumus?” This from a skinny fellow, who sat on Julian’s left.

  “Bear.” Postumus said, hesitantly.

  Several of the men laughed.

  “Get many bear attacks there in Tarentum, do you, Postumus?”

  “Could only be bear,” he said, thrusting out his jaw.

  “No bear I've ever seen, and I've seen more'n two.”

  “Well,” Postumus insisted, “maybe a bear of a kind you ain't seen, then. We're pretty far from the limes brothers, and I suppose there's any number of creatures around here none of us have ever seen.”

  “Or,” said a soldier, “it's exactly what the locals say it is.”

  “Or that,” agreed another, “cobbel cobbel.”

  This brought forth a few chuckles and others echoed the word.

  “Anyways,” said a third, “whatever made those marks, I'd wish not to meet it.”

  “Vere to that, brother, and may wishing make it so.”

  Julian held the dice cup in his hand but did nothing with it. Fourthers or not, these men weren't fools. If they saw something, they saw something.

  “Where did you see these marks?”

  “In a village, a day east of Oppidum and two north. We was foraging for the engineers and saw the marks.”

  “Aye,” said another, “we was both there, and it weren’t only the marks that was so strange. What about the animals?”

  The other man nodded. “That were something I ain’t never seen as like. All the animals in the village had been gutted—cats, dogs, goats, pigs, horses, oxen, cattle, all of them. Every one of them with their throats slashed or their bellies torn open.”

  “Or both.”

  “Aye, or both. Black stains everywhere from the blood. And the horses, sir, well they was the worst. They’d been eaten. Chewed on, like as with wolves, on’y worser.”

  “And sir, there's another thing.”

  “Still more?”

  “Well, sir, it's the people themselves. You can see it in their eyes. They're scared, they are. And they're running, ain't they? Before we left winter quarters, they were crossing the Ister, hundreds a week.”

  Julian thought about this. It was true that more and more barbarians were seeking entry into the Empire, whole clans at a time. Coming through Moesia, Julian had heard many complain about the re
fugees, who were becoming a problem. They ate too much, had too little money and no sense of private property. And they carried with them stories of something stirring in the endless hills and forests beyond the Great River.

  “Well, boys, be that as it may, we're here now and I've dice in my cup and money in my purse. Who's up for another round?”

  An hour later, Julian pretended to be out of money and the men called it a night.

  “The morale of the men is troublesome, Avi.” Julian said as they walked back to the General’s tent.

  “The whole business is trouble, Master.”

  He looked over. He hadn’t expected such a sour note so quickly. Usually Avitus sparred with him a bit.

  “Why so gloomy, little bird?”

  “How much time can you spare?” Avitus said.

  “Give me the main points.” They reached the command tent, nodded to the guards, who cautiously nodded back, and went inside. Avitus held up one finger, counting his points.

  “You don't want to be here,” he held up a second finger. “They,” he waved toward the tent door, “don't want you here.” A third finger. “You don't know what you're doing. The barbarians don't care what they're doing.” He ran out of fingers and waved his hand in disgust. “The weather stinks, the country stinks, and I stink.

  “And somewhere,” he pressed on when Julian seemed about to interrupt, “somewhere out there, is something that scares the piss out of the locals, and you are marching headlong into it.”

  Avitus shrugged.

  “You're right, Master. I'm too damned gloomy.”

  The next day, Julian was still thinking about what the men of the Fourth had told him. He was at the rear of the column, about to speak to Rufus Panneus when the entire Legion came to a halt.

  “Why have we stopped?”

  Avitus shrugged. “I’m not the General,” he said. “Maybe if we were up front… .”

  “Damn you, Avi,” Julian said. “I won’t be scolded.”