by Ellis Knox
Her head snapped up at that. He knew he had struck close to the bone. He struck harder.
“Yes, I’ve heard what Leuva said to you. I have heard people call you Queen. You may not throw this title over lightly.
“Thrasimund can’t be king, not without calling forth a dozen rivals. But you can be a queen, if you will school yourself to it. These squabbles are quarrels not between peoples but among one people. If you will make it so.”
He used Thrasimund’s words deliberately. Inglena winced at them.
“Some of my …,” she caught herself, “… of the rixen are angry. I will speak to them.”
Julian nodded. “We must learn to work together,” he said. “Only that way will we live. It is easy to learn to die. All we need do is pick at old scabs to earn new scars.”
He looked them over. “That’s all for tonight. Sleep well. Tomorrow will be harder.”
The next day was harder. The rain turned the ground sodden. Carts got stuck and too much time was spent getting them free. Goblins continued to harass the column, and falling behind was fatal. The people were tired, but worse was that the animals were wearing down. Julian spent the day in a dark mood, trying to decide how long they could keep carrying everyone without risking everything. Scouts went out in the morning. Three did not return.
Around noon on the fourth day, the three scouts came back. They had seen the Horde, and it was across the Siret River. Large swarms were to the east and at least one was west of the river, but the main body was little more than a day away. Julian ordered them to keep the news to themselves, but when he ordered everyone to pick up the pace, the news seemed to filter of its own accord. Today, there were no stragglers.
An hour later, scouts from the south reported goblins ahead as well. Ennius brought the news, speaking in low, easy tones as if in casual conversation.
“A thousand, General, maybe a few more. Not so many that we are doomed, but more than the cavalry can sweep aside.”
Julian had to agree. “We are going to have to punch through,” he said. “Come with me. We have to talk to the others.”
It took few words, for the plan had already been worked out. The Legion would deploy in the Julian Formation, using the Siret River to cover the right flank, the combined cavalry forces on the left. Julian put Inglena with Thrasimund. She objected, but he pointed out that as she was mounted, she would be most effective in riding down the goblins as they ran away. The rixen would act as skirmishers out front. They were to do as much damage as they could manage, then retreat behind the lines, where they would help protect the civilians. They barely had time to deploy before the goblins could be seen approaching.
Inglena watched the goblins swarm toward the rixen. She could not help thinking of them as her rixen, and she longed to be with them. Instead, she sat still stop her gray stallion, leaning forward as if she could will events to happen.
She spotted Ferus, standing next to three Roman archers. Already these were letting fly, the goblins were that close, Ferus with his oddly bird-like movements. The goblins were so many, the arrows could hardly miss.
Over there was Bojik, his hands shaping the wind. Nothing seemed to happen, but a swathe of goblins suddenly tumbled backward. At once he began moving back toward the Roman lines. Bojik’s magic was usually effective, but he was far too slow. He would not have a second chance.
A flash of lighting told her Pekar was at work. Quicker than Bojik, but Pekar could strike only one goblin at a time. He, too, soon was moving back. Others were out there, as well, but her hopes lay with Zeleny. Make ground swallow them all, she urged from her heart.
She could see him, in the distance, near the river, doing his strange, slow dance. She thought she saw his hand glow; definitely saw it go to the ground. She braced herself.
Nothing happened.
The goblins continued to swarm forward. Zeleny stood again, so small he looked like a child. Her gut spoke, he is too far, but her heart would not listen. All the others were pulling back now, passing through the Roman lines. Zeleny was not running; he was dancing.
A ragged shout roared from Inglena’s throat. The gray was at a gallop before the shout was ended. The white sword leaped into her hand as she leaned to the charge. She heard only wind and hoof and, somehow, the sound of her own heart breaking. Zeleny was still deep within his dance when the goblins reached him. He disappeared amid claws. She reached him seconds later, seconds too late.
She lay about her. She was so far lost in rage, every movement gained precision. No stroke missed its target, and every stroke dealt death. Goblins fell as if struck by a hundred arrows. She buried Zeleny under a mound of goblin corpses.
And then they were gone. The swarm swept past her, bounding toward the Legion. She gasped for breath, turning in every direction, wanting to kill more. Her head whirled as blood pounded in her ears. What was happening? What should she do, now she had gone off on her own?
Marcus Salvius stood in the first position of the First Cohort, and it was good. This was where he belonged. His shield was solid on his arm, its base planted firmly on the ground. His sword felt good in his hand. Mennius held his own shield above Marcus—the revised tortoise Julian had devised—so Marcus’ view of the field was through a small gap between the shields, and even that would soon close.
It was enough, though, for him to see the goblins approach, and to see the rixen work their magic. He hoped the earthquake man would not cause the earth to swallow him as well, but between earth and claws was not much of a choice. The ground never shook, though. The magicians filtered back through the lines, the goblins came closer. For a brief moment he thought he saw Inglena riding, black hair flying, but the rain hid the shape before he could make it out. Inglena was on the flank, with Thrasimund, he told himself.
The goblins were close enough now to make out individuals. Some leaped. A few slipped on the wet ground. Good. Be trampled.
Then Marcus saw a particular goblin. This was how it often went. The enemy was a shapeless mass, then it was charging men, then it narrowed to that one man, the one who was not merely attacking the XII but was attacking you. This goblin had one eye and it was trained on him. Marcus took a breath, re-set his grip on the shield, dug his feet into the rock and mud.
“Shields!” Marcus bellowed, and the entire Legion rattled with the sound. He looked to his left. There stood Albinus Volscis, a stocky veteran with an iron gray beard and a long sword he’d got from a German.
“Good fortune,” Marcus said to him.
“You kill half, Marcus, and I’ll kill the other half.”
“Done.”
It was an old joke between the two men, repeated now out of habit and a soldier’s superstition in the face of death.
A rumble reached his ears that was not thunder. The goblins were at fifty yards, their long faces leaning forward, their arms swinging outward. At thirty, he could see water glisten on their claws. At ten, the leading packs began to jump.
His vision narrowed and all sound muted. He was aware of his grip on shield and sword. He sensed a shield above his head, held close. His breathing was deep and steady. His eyes picked out one particular goblin, with a missing eye, and he knew that was the first one. Rain pattered against his right arm, which felt naked as a newborn.
The one-eyed goblin leaped.
He heard it hit. Mennius, behind him, grunted under the impact. Another sounded close by, and another, and then a goblin crashed directly into him. He heard it clawing at his shield and saw the body between the shields. Marcus stabbed forward, pulled back. The goblin staggered. Marcus struck again, quick as an adder. The goblin either fell or retreated. It mattered little, for another struck almost immediately. Marcus stabbed again, the blade moving smoothly, out, in, coming back dripping foul-smelling blood.
The battle became that surreal landscape where the world falls away except for a patch of death directly before his eyes. Time lost meaning in an unending present. He held the shield, stabbed and st
abbed again, and nothing else existed until someone clapped him twice on the back of the neck. The signal. From behind him he heard voices in unison count. On five, Marcus pulled his shield in tight and scooted back. Above him, Mennius stepped forward, slamming the base of his shield to the ground. There was a blur of legs and boots, and then Marcus was up. He turned and there was the killing ground, the open space between the second rank and the third. Between, goblins lay dead.
He was breathing hard, but judged himself uninjured. He glanced left. Centurion Orosius nodded back. A goblin landed not far away. It tumbled then got up facing Orosius. Marcus raised his shield, readied his sword, then the goblin pitched forward, a spear in its back.
He spent five minutes in the third line, guarding men’s backs. Goblins landed often, but none attacked him. The second rank worked hard, killing with spears. Three times a goblin managed to bound forward, plowing into the second rank, and there was sword work. He saw one soldier fall. Then the signal again. Marcus turned as Mennius scooted through. He raised his shield over his head and angled it forward to protect the man crouched in front. A goblin smashed into his shield, almost driving him to his knees, but he held. The thunder of battle drowned out everything.
Julian paced. The rain had finally stopped, but the ground was slick with mud, causing him to slip now and again.
“Where are they?” he asked. “They should be here by now.”
Marcus Salvius looked at Avitus, who shrugged and said, “Still riding down the last of the goblins, I expect.” He knew his master knew this. He tossed a wet rag to the First Tribune, who was picking off pieces of gore from his shield.
“You’re sure you saw her?”
Marcus nodded. “I’m sure. I saw her as the goblins began to scatter. Gray horse, white sword. Hard to mistake that. She was riding with Thrasimund.”
Julian did not appear comforted. He continued to pace, looking ready to pounce on most anyone for most anything.
“The Legion is formed up?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said crisply. “The civilians, too.”
Avitus chose not to point out Julian had already asked this.
“Jupiter’s eyes, I’ll march without them if they don’t get here soon.” He glared around as if daring anyone to contradict him. Avitus caught his eye. He smirked. Julian frowned and shook his head, but a smile flitted across his face for an instant. He stopped pacing and drew a breath.
“Can’t very well march without a cavalry screen, can we, First?”
“No, sir, not very well.”
As if on cue, Ennius, Thrasimund and Inglena appeared, riding side by side. Blood decorated the three of them.
“Salve, General,” Ennius called. He was smiling broadly.
“We have killed them all,” Thrasimund said, reining in his horse. He, too, was smiling. Both men looked happy, like they were returning from an especially good party.
“Losses?”
“Four dead,” Ennius reported. “Plenty of wounds, but only four dead.”
“Give their names to Avitus. Your own men?” Julian asked of Thrasimund.
“Six fell. Eight mauled. The packs run, but they fight when caught.”
“It is so,” Ennius agreed. “Damned dangerous work.”
“It is my hope we won’t have more to do,” Julian said.
“Aye to that, General,” Ennius said. He dismounted and said four names to Avitus, who wrote them down. Julian sent Thrasimund to cover the flank and Ennius to ride in the van.
“And the rixen,” he asked of Inglena. “Any losses?”
Her lips pressed tight then, in a low voice, she said, “Zeleny.”
“What? The earthquake man? How?”
“Sometimes, the magic does not work. I have said this.”
She looked at Julian, reproach plain on her face “He was too far forward. I could not reach him in time, from where I was put. Next time, I will be at their side. Chief Thrasimund does not need me.”
“I am sorry,” Julian said. He searched for more words, but could not find them. He looked away.
“Marcus, get the Legion moving. We will march as long as there is daylight.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Marcus left, Julian had Avitus give him the new names. He then began to recite, even as Julian climbed onto Bandylegs. Quietly, Inglena asked what the Roman General was doing.
“He remembers the name of every man under his command who has died,” Avitus said. “We are up to a hundred twelve.”
“So many. How can he know all these names?”
“He repeats them, as you see,” Avitus said. “Name and cohort. I keep a list.” He showed her the rolls of parchment, which he kept checking as Julian recited.
“Why?” asked Inglena.
“So he does not forget.”
“Yes, but why does he want to remember?”
“Because he is Julian. Now, if you will excuse me.” Avitus swung up onto his donkey and followed after Julian. “You missed one, master. Anaket Pharses, Second Cohort. Died on the march, day before yesterday.”
“Anaket Pharses, Second Cohort,” Julian repeated, then went on with the list. When he reached the end, he began again.
Always twice through, Avitus reflected. Because he is Julian.
The following day, the fifth since leaving Oppidum, Julian was riding the column when he noticed a chorus of cheers coming from the Second Cohort. The cheering was almost regular: a shout, several seconds, another shout.
He rode nearer and saw archers working in teams along the way. The ranks would part and three archers stepped forward as the column kept moving. They set, aimed and fired. The ranks opened and the three archers stepped back and fell in with the march. Meanwhile, further forward, a new set of three stepped out and let fly. Each team in this way fell behind the cohort as they shot, but caught up again as others shot. It was completely unorthodox and they couldn't keep it up for very long—each threesome had to trot to move back up the line again—but it seemed to be working, judging from the cheers.
Only as he drew close did he see that another man was involved, a Therving. He was marching near Aulus Libo Tanax, the Second Tribune, along the outside rank. As each group of archers let fly they were immediately adjacent to this Thervingian, who seemed to waggle one arm as they shot. This was followed a few moments later by a ragged cheer from the cohort.
Julian rode close enough to call out. “Having good luck, boys?”
A murmur of suppressed laughter ran through the men, along with comments like “a fellow could say that,” and “to a way of thinkin',” and so on. He didn't have time to figure out the joke, for someone cried “Got one, Ferus!” and another cheer went up. “Got the bastard, Ferus!” said someone, and one of the archers snarled “I shot the damned arrow, you know.”
“Second Tribune,” Julian called out.
“Here sah!” Tanax was only a few feet away.
“Please tell me what we are doing here.”
“Shootin' garblins, sah.” The easy-going Calabrian accent might be mistaken for insubordination, but Julian knew that wasn't the case.
“I can see that Tanax, and well done. Having some luck too, I see.”
“Aye that, sah.”
Julian said nothing for a moment. The men all seemed to think they had a great, fun secret. Abruptly, he decided to let them keep their secret for the time being. Whatever it was, it was killing goblins.
“Keep at it then, Second. Start a tally and let's have a report this evening.”
The Calabrian peered up at his commander, calculating.
“Yessah, tally it is.”
“We got sixteen, Second!” someone yelled from further back.
“Seems as we got sixteen, sah.” The Second Tribune grinned.
That evening, Julian went to the tents of the Second Cohort. By now the men had grown accustomed to seeing their general strolling around the camp in the hour of sundown, making small talk and sharing a cup—sometimes a wine cup,
sometimes a dice cup. So the soldiers of the Second were a little surprised when Julian declined offers of both.
“Aulus Libo, is this Ferus fellow at your mess?”
“Sorry sah, didn’t mean ta break rules.”
“I’m not sure we have any rules for this, Tribune. I saw him with your cohort this afternoon. Why is he here?”
The black-haired Calabrian grinned, showing a line of perfectly white teeth.
“You see, sah, it's like this and be prepared to be amazed. Picture us on the march before this noon, and the boys here havin' the occasional conversation with th'enemy yes? When up comes this fella with his long hair and his strange talk.
“Get on with you, is what I told him, exactly that. The Legion don't want strangers nor even these folk takin' th'air while the XII is on the march. There's sense in that, General, yes?”
Julian allowed there was sense in that.
“Yes, well, but this fella starts jabbering at me. O’ course, we don't know what the windy fella's saying, and the Second Tribune is thinking how to get rid of the batty barbarian when one of our boys yells 'Pack!' and it's big ol' Radulph there an' he's pointin', an' next you know the archers are settin' nocks.
“Now here's what you might call the interestin’ part, sah, an' no mistake. Ferus commences to make some signs I understand: he says watch and sure I'll watch, so I do, an' Ophiucus lets fly an' Ferus is wagglin' his arm an' down goes a garblin an' that barbarian turns to me lookin' all proud of his own self. I'm just about to scold the fella for wastin' my time when he motions to watch again an' again with the crazy arm and down goes another garblin. Then another. Pretty soon I order all the archers to stand down except for Ophiucus on account of because he's right next to me at the time. Ferus here works his sorcery and every time ol' windy waves his arm, Ophiucus brings down a beastie. And every time he don't, he don't. All the boys see it an' so as did the Third and some of the First besides.
“Did I call it sorcery? That I did, nor is there a better word for it. Soldier’s honor, sah, I don’t care neither. Ferus helps us kill garblins, and he’s a right good sort of companion besides, and the Second is damned glad to have him. So we ast him to supper, sah, as a way of thankin' him. He's been teachin' me some of their gibberish, sah: gob-leans.” He grinned, and so did Ferus.