by Ellis Knox
His heart pounded furiously as he gathered his few possessions. Only one course of action lay open to him, awful and final. Nothing must interfere. He refused to allow himself to think, only to act. There was no point in thinking now. Everything was settled the moment Alavia had screamed.
He left his father’s tent and looked about him. No one paid any attention. He left the fires of the Ox Clan and was unheeded. He left the Taifali camp, and did not look back.
The words of the White Warrior are dust. He knew this was true, knew it deep in his gut. Inglena could not wave her magic sword and do away with ten generations of prejudice. To stay would mean shame upon his family, a fate worse than Exile. He had lost Alavia. He could not also dishonor his father. If Exile was no longer permitted, then he would impose it upon himself. Somehow he would atone for what he had done.
Looking only forward, he slipped through the willow trees. Without his being aware of it, his feet took him toward the river.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Broken
Five days after the battle, the Legion reached Oppidum. Julian had pushed them hard, even though Dacians and Thervings kept joining the march. He told them they must find a way to keep up or be left behind. Most found a way to keep up, though some straggled into camp each day hours late.
He now was climbing the wide hill of Oppidum. With him was a delegation consisting of himself, Marcus Salvius, Avitus, and Ursinus to carry the standard and make it official. He brought ten soldiers along, just in case.
The Romans were joined by Inglena, along with the chief Thrasimund and Stavanos, who seemed never to be left behind. With Thrasimund were a dozen warriors. Inglena wore freshly-cleaned deerskin with beaded patterns sewn along the arms and around the neck. Her black hair was cleaned, combed and braided, tied with silver ribbons. Seated erect on her white horse, with her sword on her back, Julian thought she looked every inch a queen.
Let’s hope, Julian thought, “that appearance counts for something with the old fox.”
Julian planned to persuade King Fritigern to go with the Legion, or at least to go south on his own road, and bring all his people into the Empire. Thrasimund had said the King would not listen.
“He will go west, Roman. He follows the old wisdom: nothing can stand against a Horde. Run or die, and the King will do anything to preserve his own life.”
Inglena had agreed with Thrasimund, but said she intended to try to change the King’s mind.
“He is my uncle, so I must try if only for that. But there is another thing, more important. Many will follow the King. If they do, they will die. The goblins will hunt them down, and they will all die. I have to make him see that.”
Julian had asked, “What about the other woman? The older one. You said she was a leader of some sort.”
“She refuses to come,” Inglena said. “She is rixen.”
Julian cocked his head. “So are you.”
“Leuva holds to the old ways. Exiled is exiled. She will not come.”
“A pity. Well, as it is, then. Fritigern’s the matter of the moment. But I’ll say it again, to you and all your people. The Legion goes on tomorrow. We are ahead of your monsters, and I intend to stay ahead until we are safe behind the protection of the Ister.”
So they had assembled and now walked in a rough column (the Thervings will never learn a line of march, Julian thought), Romans first, then Inglena and Stavanos, followed by Thrasimund and his warriors. Julian wondered if the princess realized he was trying to hide her a bit, by keeping her in the center. If she did, she had not objected.
Oppidum looked even more forlorn than it had when Julian had first seen it. The lonely hill was no longer covered with black tents, but now was dotted with scores of carts drawn by every manner of animal, including a few by men. Every cart was piled high with belongings.
“They won’t move fast loaded down like that,” Marcus said.
“True enough, First,” he said, “but the Legion is similarly laden, isn’t it?”
Marcus grumbled into his beard.
“We’ve kept ahead of them so far, Marcus. And I have no intention of dawdling.”
The Thervings of Oppidum appeared to be of the same mind, for many of the carts were already in motion. Other people were still packing, while some had yet to dismantle their tents. All was chaotic, and it made progress slow.
They were only halfway up the hill when a commotion ahead caused them to halt. Men were shouting, then with marvelous rapidity, several tents came down and were cleared away. In the space just opened stood King Fritigern with an escort of twenty armed men. To Julian they appeared determined, but also a little frightened. Uncertain. He might need that, if things went badly.
“Hail, King Fritigern,” Julian called, one hand raised in salute.
“Hail Lucius Julianus Metellus,” the King replied.
“I mourn the loss of so many of your people,” Julian said. For an instant a memory flashed of a valley filled with death.
“Were you there? Did you see?” The King’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
Julian couldn’t find a way to answer. The vision of carnage took away his voice. He spread his hands helplessly, and the King nodded.
Neither spoke for a long moment, then Julian took a deep breath and found his voice.
“But I can help this much,” he said. “I’m told your people are fleeing. Come with me instead. Come to Rome.”
A light flickered within the hooded eye.
“Rome?” Fritigern cackled a dry laugh. “What does Rome want with a broken people? Does Valens grant citizenship in exchange for dead warriors?”
“I cannot promise that,” Julian said, “but I can promise this: there is no hope outside of Rome. Your only safety lies across the River Ister, within the Empire.”
“Hah! You have lived so long in the Empire you think it is the whole world. But more dreadful things lie to the East, Roman, more than you have seen. More than you can imagine!
“No, I shall go into the mountains, into empty lands where the Horde cannot feed.”
“The Horde will pursue you.”
Fritigern grinned unpleasantly. With his narrow face and his shaggy hair, he looked more fox-like than ever. “Perhaps,” he said, “the Horde will pursue you.”
“I will get across the Ister River.”
“You only hope. The Horde is closer than you think. Already, outrunners are on the west side of the Siret River, and below Oppidum.”
“We will drive through them. And once we reach the Ister, we—and all who come with us,” Julian raised his voice, “will find safety.”
Fritigern snorted. “The Great River will not stop the Horde. Your own emperor built bridges across that river.” He cackled, and raised an arm in a grand motion, like an orator making a point.
Julian laughed. “Lord King, your information is out of date. Emperor Trajan did indeed build a mighty bridge, to bring his armies to chastise the Dacians. But that was long ago, the bridge was not maintained, and it collapsed.”
Fritigern’s grin fled, replaced by a sly look. “Constantine also built a bridge.”
“He did,” Julian said. He made a sad face. “Alas, ice from a bad winter broke the central span. The goblins cannot cross there, or anywhere else for that matter.”
The sly look fled after the grin, leaving only frustration and anger.
“Hear me, Lord King,” Julian said, pressing his advantage, “the Horde is your problem. The goblins will hunt your people as they always have. Come with us into the Empire. Rome will shield you. Soon, Valens the Emperor of the East will return, bringing vast armies. Gratian, the Emperor of the West, who is his nephew and so bound by blood, will be done with his war with the Alemanni, and he too will bring vast armies. Two great hammers will swing. They will crush the Horde forever. Only Rome has the strength for this. Come to Rome, o Lord King.”
Fritigern hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, looking at Julian under hooded
eyes. His fingers twitched. His mouth worked as if it chewed words, then he spat them out.
“The goblins will not follow us into the west. They will go south. They are drawn by wealth and easy kills. They will find a way across the Great River, destroy your armies, and invade your lands. The Roman Empire is rich and fat, and they will feed upon it and Rome’s corpse will stink for generations!”
Julian felt a movement at his side. No, he thought frantically, not yet!
Inglena stepped out from the screen of her Thervings.
“You!”
The King pointed a shaking finger at Inglena.
“Stand easy but stand ready, boys,” Julian said quietly. He could feel Inglena move just behind his left shoulder. He was intensely aware of the sword at his hip.
“You …,” Fritigern repeated, “… rixen!”
The word transformed the scene. At once the King’s men advanced to his side.
Fritigern trembled. “Stand away, Roman. This is not your concern.”
“Princess Inglena is under my protection.”
“Princess? Hah!” He spit the words. “She is no princess, she is rixen.”
“Uncle, …” Inglena began, but Fritigern cut her off.
“She is not my niece. I do not speak to her. She is Exiled.”
The armed men stepped forward. As one, the Romans drew their swords and set their shields. The precision of the movement took the barbarians aback. They hesitated.
Julian had drawn his sword with the others, but he held his point down. He now traced a line in the dirt, a wide circle around himself and around Inglena. He sheathed the sword and faced the king.
“Ursinus, stand close.”
The big man planted the standard.
“This,” he gestured at the ground, “is Rome. I am a Roman citizen and a General. If you attack me, you have attacked Rome.”
He paused. Fritigern reddened.
“This is the Princess Inglena,” Julian said, taking her hand. “She is under my protection. If you attack her, you have attacked Rome.
“My Legion will slaughter you, down to your dogs. If you run, her magicians will burn you to the ground. You will not touch her. She is under my protection, and I am Rome.”
Julian had time to draw four careful breaths before the King replied.
“The witch is gone to Rome,” he said. “She does not exist.” He motioned to his men. “We have other things to do.”
“You will not grant amnesty?”
“Never.”
“Your people are nearly destroyed,” Julian said. “You need every fighter you can get, and I tell you these people know how to fight the goblins.”
“I do not need warriors, General, I need horses and wagons and oxen … and time.”
“Then they can help you to flee.”
Fritigern screeched in frustration. “You are Roman. Go to Rome! We have no wish to live in your house. These,” he waved at Inglena, “are the cause of all our troubles. The goblins are their doing, they have brought them. They have summoned the Horde. They live … look!” he pointed a trembling finger, “… they live while the Tribes have died. And now you have brought them here, to the sacred city.” He spat towards Inglena. “Filth! Witch!”
The King lapsed into a frothing babble. In the next moment, Fritigern turned and ran, his great robes flying, his men following. Julian looked at Inglena.
“I am sorry,” he said, appalled by the deep sadness he saw in her eyes. “Your hopes are dashed.”
“I always feared it would be this way,” she said. “I did not hope.”
Julian motioned to Marcus. “Back to camp, First. There’s nothing here.” The Roman soldiers and the Therving warriors did not turn their back on the King until they were well down the hill.
When they reached the rixen camp, Leuva was waiting for them. Behind her stood a hundred or more rixen along with their families.
“What’s this about?” Julian asked.
“The other thing I feared,” Inglena said. “You tried to get Fritigern to follow us; now Leuva will try to get me to follow the King.”
“Do you want some help?”
“No. This concerns the People, not Romans. You go. In the morning, the rixen will follow you, even if we are only one.”
Julian nodded. “Let’s go, Marcus. Get a full night’s rest. It is likely to be our last one.”
The Romans left, marching in formation, even when it was so few. Inglena shook her head in bemusement. She turned to Thrasimund.
“You should go, too, and Stavanos as well. This is mine to handle.”
Stavanos began to protest but she cut him off with a gesture and a look.
Thrasimund said, “I thought we were one people now.”
“That is my hope,” Inglena said. “Right now, though, we are a broken people. Let me try to mend one crack, at least.”
“As you wish,” Thrasimund said. He paused, then added, “I may have to start calling you Queen Inglena. You show more strength than I remember, and the People need a Queen.”
He strode away with the rolling gait of one who spends his days on horseback. He is everything a chief should be, Inglena thought. Strong, courageous, generous, true. And handsome, she added, although he does not move me. He is a chieftain, but no more.
“How is your uncle?”
Leuva’s harsh voice cut through the air. Inglena turned to her. Leuva had evidently tired of waiting and had moved forward. She stopped, Inglena noticed, on a small rise that put her above Inglena and above the crowd which gathered around them.
Clever old panther, Inglena thought, and wondered at herself. There had been a time when she thought Leuva was the finest leader she had ever met. Now, she was just a cunning adversary.
She is ready for battle, Inglena thought, as much as if she had drawn a sword.
“He is broken,” Inglena said, and the words tasted sour in her mouth. “He wants only to run away.”
“That is not what I heard,” Leuva said, then she raised her voice a bit, “I heard the King leads the People into the mountains.”
Those are her people, Inglena realized with a start. She’s speaking to them. Why are there so many? She took a breath to calm her heart, which kept wanting to race. She had to persuade more than just Leuva here.
“Fritigern,” she refused to use the title, “is a drunkard. He is old and afraid. He’s not leading anyone, he’s just running away.” Then another breath, and she too raised her voice.
“But I can lead,” she said. “I am leading us to Rome, to a new life. To the only hope remaining to us. And I offer an end to Exile!”
Some murmurs ran through the crowd.
Leuva brushed her hair out of her eyes and glared at Inglena.
“You believe these things you say.” It was more incredulity than a question.
“With all my heart,” Inglena said, though a worm of doubt turned at the center.
“That is what makes you so dangerous.” Leuva nodded in agreement with herself. Inglena felt the other woman’s judgment as a weight upon her brow.
“You reject the good old ways and replace them with your own desires, as if you were a new god bringing new laws. You do this because you are nobly born, and because you are arrogant. Your father let you believe you were special.”
“Do not mention my father the king,” Inglena said, her voice suddenly brittle. Leuva responded with an indifferent shrug.
“So,” she said, “you were a princess born, but you do not behave as one. Does a queen lead her people to ruin? Does the mother slay her own children? You lead them into danger rather than away from it, and give them into the hands of strangers.”
Leuva’s voice grew angry as she spoke. She stabbed at the air with a bony finger.
“For generations,” she said, “the elders of tribes have had the same counsel. Kings and priests have faced the goblin Horde. Those who stood and fought, died. Those who came away and sought new lands, lived. They are our ancestors, th
e custodians of our law. Athanaric was the most recent who learned this truth.
“Then along comes Inglena, Queen of Unknown Roads.” Her voice was stern, an elder admonishing a foolish child. “The old customs are not enough for her, no. She must go on new paths, and all must follow her over the cliff. But I say this: you are an arrogant girl.
“The old ways are the right ways, and I intend to follow them. We are rixen!” She all but shouted the word. “Exiled. That is the judgment of the Tribes. It is not for the daughter of a dead king to rewrite the law.”
Inglena retreated before the jabbing finger. She fought currents of shame and anger that swept through her. She took a ragged breath.
“The Tribes are gone,” she said, struggling to steady her voice. “The old customs were for the Tribes, and the Tribes lie dead. The People have lost their kings.”
“Fritigern…” Leuva began, but Inglena cut her off.
“Fritigern is a useless old man! He would throw his own children to the Horde, if he thought he could use them to save himself. He is not leading people to safety, he is running in panic, looking for a hole. There is no safety in the mountains, Leuva, there is only death.”
“Prideful!” Leuva shrieked. “You are no prophet. You are only a prideful girl too stubborn to suppose you might be wrong, and too much in love to see beyond your own lust.”
Inglena grabbed at her sword. Leuva’s eyes went wide. She threw up an arm and cringed. With an effort, Inglena took her hand away again.
“I will not threaten you, Leuva. I want you to come with me. Let us be friends as we once were, and let us be allies together with the Romans.”
Leuva lowered her arm but stepped back and spit on the ground.
“Those men? They pretend friendship, but you do not see when you turn your back. They laugh at you, lost princess. They sneer at your deerskin clothes, your barbarian tongue, and they fear your magic.
“Magic is forbidden in Rome. It is against their laws. Mark me, Inglena, they will not permit sorcery. Romans love their law more than they love the deerskin princess.”
She stepped away, speaking now to the crowd.