by Ellis Knox
She looked away and said, “Yes.”
The one word was enough. He saw a rift within the rixen: those who would adhere to the old ways even though it meant exile, and those who wanted to end their exile even at the cost of tradition. Julian was a Roman. He felt in his bones the importance of customs—mores—as strongly as anyone. He felt a surge of sympathy for this young woman, hardly more than a girl, daring to stand against the traditions of her people. He knew a few things about the cost of doing that. He smiled at her, a genuine, unplanned smile. Perhaps he would be able to rescue her after all.
Inglena turned her roan aside, saying she needed to check with her people. Julian said he needed to do the same and eased Bandylegs back toward the First Cohort. He watched Inglena ride away, her deerskin-clad form in perfect harmony with the horse she rode. Avitus shot him an arch look.
“What?”
“Nothing, Master,” Avitus said, but his grin said more.
When Julian reached Marcus Salvius, the Tribune was scowling. As usual, Julian thought.
“They wander all over sir,” Marcus complained, meaning the rixen. “They drop behind or go ahead. Once some even went to the left flank. Said they were checking. Checking on what, I’d like to know!”
“They are new to this, Marcus. They don’t even know they’re auxiliaries yet, much less how to behave properly.”
Marcus managed to stomp as he marched.
“We should be patient with them. They are going to be valuable to us, in the next battle.”
The Tribune glanced up inquiringly.
“Yes,” Julian said, “I do think so. Many more battles, if not on this march, then later, when the ghobellensi arrive at the Empire’s borders. We are too rich a prize to pass up.”
“As the General says,” Marcus said, “but these people have no discipline. You said yourself many thousands were killed.”
“Not the same. These are rixen. They have … abilities,” he said, unable to bring himself to call it magic, “unlike any you have ever seen. We can make good use of them, if we can puzzle out how.”
He waved one hand vaguely.
“Even so, sir,” Marcus said, “it’s poor practice. It makes the men nervous.”
Something in his tone caught Julian’s attention.
“Nervous? Do they complain? Worry?”
“Worry, sir. They do not complain, yet.”
“Very well, First. Noted. If they do complain, you must let me know.”
Julian lapsed into silence. He knew some of the officers disapproved of him. Bringing along barbarians was tolerable, but bringing along mysterious ones who appeared out of the forest from nowhere wielding strange powers, that was probably pushing things a bit. He had as yet given the men little reason to trust his judgment.
Rumors about the barbarians would have run through the Legion almost at once. By now, all the men would have heard the stories, from eyewitnesses or embellished by re-telling. The word would have been spoken: sorcery.
Sorcery had been a crime in Rome for centuries, even before Caesar Augustus. Few were charged with it; it was a handy accusation to lay at the feet of foreigners, especially those practicing secret religious rituals. The legality was not the issue here, so far from any Roman court of law; the issue was the taint of the foreign, the threat of unknown power, now brought into the Legion by this new General.
This, Julian realized, was a matter that would not fade away by itself.
The day slid by quickly. The Romans stopped only for short rests, with cold food at midday, and the Legion made good time. It was not quite a forced march, but everyone seemed eager to cover ground, and the pace was fast enough that by day’s end Julian’s bandages were stained dark and he hurt all over. In the command tent that night, Avitus fussed.
“You will split open like a melon, if you keep on like this,” he said as he changed the dressing on the largest wound, a long but shallow rake that went right across Julian’s back.
Julian hushed him. Marcus’ words about the temper of the men continued to bother him, but he could not think what to do about it. How could he reassure his men when he barely knew what to do himself?
“Avi, can I quit? I don’t want to play General anymore.”
Avitus recognized the pained humor and responded in kind. “Would it be more fun,” he asked, “to spend your days in court with Plotinus and his croaking crows?”
“Hmph,” Julian said.
Avitus finished with the last bandage, and Julian stood carefully upright.
“I think Mother was so angry with me, she sent you along to ensure I’d be miserable every day.”
“It was me she was angry with, Master,” Avitus said. “If we live, I shall report to her that I had not a moment of happiness.”
“We will return alive,” Julian said, his voice now grave. “We have to return, if only to warn.”
The sudden change in tone caught Avitus off guard. He grabbed up a heavy robe.
“Here, it’s cold,” he said roughly. “Now get some rest and let those wounds heal. At least you’re not still having those awful dreams!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Lion in the Sky
Marcus knew he should be paying more attention to the castra. Properly speaking, the General should have ordered an inspection, but Julian had been hurt worse than anyone realized. After the day’s march, his wounds were catching up to him and the surgeon had ordered him to his tent.
Marcus had to give the young man credit. He had been attacked by surprise, unhorsed, yet had fought an enemy out of some barbarian nightmare and had not only given a good account of himself, he had saved Ennius’ life. Perhaps, Marcus admitted grudgingly, there was some steel in him after all.
But he still ought to have ordered a review.
“Not that you’re doing any better,” he said aloud, then was startled to hear a reply.
“Sorry sir! I dozed off. Trooper Manlius, sir. First Wing.”
In the darkness he saw a soldier in light armor.
“What? First Wing? You fought yesterday.”
“Aye.”
“Why are you on watch?”
“My turn, sir. The Captain says we don’t slack just because of a little dust up.”
Marcus grimaced. Ennius had nearly died and he called it a little dust up?
“Never mind, trooper. I meant no criticism of you. But stay sharp now, you hear? You wouldn’t want Captain Ennius to catch you napping.”
“Yes sir! That is, no sir!”
Marcus moved on. He knew perfectly well that Ennius was asleep in his tent, as exhausted as the General, but he could not have guards nodding off. Especially not now.
He went down the outside embankment and scrambled over the fosse. The soft murmur of the camp faded behind the earthworks. A sliver of moon hung low in the east, barely visible. The light from Venus on the western horizon, plus Jupiter in the south gave almost as much light. His eye traced the arc of the Milky Way, high overhead.
He heard movement. He stopped, hand on hilt. A quick scan and he saw a single shape moving toward him. There was a soft sigh at his hip as steel slid from leather.
“Peace, Marcus Salvius, I am not a goblin.”
A woman’s voice. A moment later, he saw the barbarian princess step forward into the glow of starlight.
His heart jumped. She seemed to shimmer, her black hair glittering. With her sword hilt showing at her left shoulder, she looked like a warrior goddess stepping out of a barbarian legend.
She held her arms forward, palms out.
“I am not a threat,” she said.
Not a threat, he thought. Why would she say that? Then he was aware he still held his sword before him. He put it away, fumbling as he did so. He fumbled for words as well.
“Can’t be too careful,” he muttered.
“Goblins sleep at night,” she said.
He finally got his sword sheathed. Now he tried to find something to do with his hands.
�
�You are out as well,” he said. He did not mean that to sound accusatory, but she only laughed a little.
“I am careful,” she said, “like you.”
“I always walk the perimeter before I sleep, any time the Legion is in the field. Do they sleep the whole night? The goblins I mean. If they heard us talking, wouldn’t they wake up?”
Military matters were a kind of refuge, a safe place to talk. A substitute for stammering like a boy.
“They go to sleep at sundown, wake at sunrise. They can be awakened, though. I would not shout. But they are not near.”
He was staring at her. His heart still galloped. He knew this feeling well enough, though it was twenty years and more since he last felt it. He had long thought he was past this sort of thing.
“How can you be sure?” Again his words were abrupt to the edge of rudeness.
“I cannot be sure. It is one reason why I walk, being careful.”
“But your people are camped over there, on the hillside.” He berated himself. Why do I keep trying to argue with her?
“True. I have finished my walk. But I wanted to see this fort of yours. What is its name?”
“Castra.”
“Hm. I saw as you were building it. Your men work fast.”
“We have had much practice.”
She gestured toward the vallum.
“It is not tall enough,” she said. “They would jump over.”
“They would be impaled on the spikes,” he said.
“Over ….” She shook her head. Braids of silvered black glittered. “Was that the wrong word?”
She raised one hand as an imaginary wall, then jumped it with the other.
“Over?”
“That’s the right word, but ….” Marcus positioned himself at the edge of the fosse and executed a little hop. “From here?”
“They run.” She backed up and trotted forward to stand next to him, then hopped. She took another look at the vallum. “Yes,” she said, “from here, I think. Nearly. Closely.”
“Barely,” he said. “They could barely make the jump.”
“That is the word. Barely.”
“But the vallum is only part of the defense,” Marcus said. “It isn’t there to stop the enemy.”
“No?”
She looked again at the embankment, studying it.
“No. It’s intended to slow an enemy long enough for the Legion to form up. The only real defense of a Legion is the men themselves.”
“Ah,” she said. “I think I understand.” She looked down into the fosse.
“You fill the ditch with branches?”
“With whatever is handy. To slow the attacker.”
“Yes. You make the ditch wider.” She pointed. “Then the goblins do not jump over.”
She stepped off five strides.
“This much.”
That was no small amount of digging. It could add an hour or more each time they built a castra.
“I will mention it to the General.”
She nodded. She looked down at the ground. Marcus did not know what to say next, but he did not want her to go away.
She looked up, into the night sky. “Clear,” she said. “It is good after so much of clouds.”
He looked up as well, still groping for something to say other than good night. “It is good to see the Lion again.”
“Lion?”
He pointed. “There. See? Just rising.”
She squinted. “Lions do not fly.”
He laughed aloud then immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you.”
She pretended to look around. “There is no one else.”
He laughed again, more gently.
“True enough. I laughed because you thought I meant a living beast. I meant the constellation.”
“I do not know this word.” She sounded embarrassed.
“Please, I didn’t mean to ….” He reached out a hand, but she was a step too far away to touch. “It’s not a common word. No reason you should know it. Let me explain.”
She glanced at his outstretched hand.
“I am glad to learn new words,” she said.
He was surprised at how relieved he felt, at how badly he did not want to offend her.
“Good,” he said. “Constellation. It means a pattern of stars. Those stars there, that is the Lion.”
“Where is the head?”
He stepped closer to her, both of them facing east.
“Look where I point. You see the brightest star, there?”
“Yes.”
“That is Regulus.”
“We call it Grelitar.”
“Regulus,” he repeated. “Now see how a line of stars runs there, and another rises and curves? That’s the Lion’s head. Where the two meet, that’s the Heart of the Lion.”
“Ah!” she said, and he was pleased she saw it so quickly.
“The Sickle.”
“A sickle?”
“Yes. The curve, that is the sickle, and there is the handle. Not,” she said solemnly, “a lion.”
Marcus thought a lion was far more elegant.
“We have a word for your con … consta ….”
“Constellation.”
“That. It means … oh … sky shapes, I suppose.”
He was not going to say a thing about barbarian languages.
“You see there?” She pointed north. “That is Cup and Handle. Do you see?”
“The Great Bear,” he said.
“Another animal!”
She pointed again. “And that is the Guide Star. We use it to find north at night.”
“Polaris.”
She laughed, a sound like water over smooth stones. He smiled at her and their faces were nearly touching. He felt as if he stood at the very edge of the world, breathing the air of the gods. If they stepped off together, they would surely fly.
“Are all your sky shapes animals?”
“Not all. Another is the Lyre.”
“Where? A liar?”
“It has not yet risen. And it’s Lyre. Like a harp.”
She smiled in the starlight and her hand touched his arm.
They spent nearly an hour looking at the sky, comparing patterns, puzzling and laughing. They shared their theories concerning the stars that wandered, the phases of the moon, why some stars changed in brightness.
Undetected by either of them, their own people came looking for them, Romans from one side, Thervings from the other. On both sides men heard voices and investigated. They approached silently, wondered at what they saw, then went away again.
Happily undisturbed, the tribune and the princess gazed together at the night sky as the moon slid across the river of stars.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They's Theirs
Morning fog covered the countryside for two more days as the Legion marched southwestward, out of the hills. Rixen guides led them, following the valleys and saving them the labor of climbing up and down the long hills. The men hated it. They kept seeing monsters in the fog.
Despite the shapes and phantoms, though, no goblins leaped out from the mists to tear men open. The barbarian magicians formed a company that marched on the Legion’s right flank while Roman cavalry covered the left and rear. The gray mist lay heavy on their cloaks and on their spirits, and no one struck up a marching song. Men and horses alike trudged with heads down, as if they were shouldering their way into a heavy wind.
Julian rode Bandylegs along the length of the column twice each morning and twice each afternoon. He heard from the tribunes, but he listened to the men as well. He didn’t like what he was hearing.
“They’re even more skittish now,” he said to Avitus on the second day, “and I can’t blame them, not after what they’ve seen.”
“Or what they’re imagining they’re seeing,” Avitus said, keeping his voice low. “Only a few saw those creatures alive and even fewer actually fought one. The rest are seeing rumors and s
hadows.”
“Which is always worse,” Julian agreed. “I will take that over having to face those monsters again in the flesh, though.”
“Aye to that,” Avitus said, imitating the soldiers’ idiom.
“But that’s not my first worry.”
“No?”
“No, but it will wait until tonight. I don’t want to be overheard gossiping about the men.”
They were near the head of the column. Julian took a moment to check in with Marcus Salvius, who reported all was well, which had been his report that morning and the day before. Briefly, Julian wondered what it would take for Marcus to have a complaint. Goblin attack, probably.
That evening, once his tent was set up, Julian took up the morning’s conversation again.
“My first worry is the barbarians, or rather how my men are reacting to them.”
“Your men? When did they go from ‘the men’ to your men?”
“Don’t distract me. They don’t trust the rixen.”
Julian removed his cloak and handed it to Avitus.
“That’s hardly surprising,” Avitus said. “Sorcery is against the law. These are barbarians, who are never trustworthy. There are monsters abroad in the land and impossible deeds. Did you expect these soldiers to accept it all without comment?”
“I’m surprised to hear you defend them,” Julian said.
“No less than I,” the slave said cheerfully, “but perhaps it’s because I’m as frightened as they are.” Avitus folded the cloak and put it away.
“Perhaps. What about the rixen worries you?”
“I didn’t say I was worried. I just don’t know what to make of it. I didn’t see any of it, you may remember.”
“Don’t scold, Avi.” Julian began unlacing his boots. “Most of the men have not seen magic with their own eyes, either. They are reacting to report and rumor.”
“True,” Avitus agreed. “And that’s never good.”
“I heard Gaius Crispus rail about how sorcery is against the law of men and gods alike.”
“You remembered his name? I’m impressed.”
“Can you at least pretend this is serious?”
Avitus hung his head. “Sorry.”
Julian handed his boots to Avitus and stood up. “In another cohort, a man said he didn’t believe any of it. No such thing as magic, he declared. Others claimed some god in disguise intervened on our behalf.”