by Ellis Knox
Julian took all this in, but as he listened he was also watching the men around the fire. They were talking and laughing and plying the Thervingian with wine and meat. It was, in short, a normal camp scene.
“Well done, Tribune. You've made an ally for the Legion. You'd best get back to him.”
“Yes sah. Can we keep him, sah?”
Julian smiled. “Sure. Keep him, if he'll stay.”
Tanax looked at the man, laughing and drinking. “I do believe he do,” he said. “Thank you, sah.”
Julian only nodded and walked away, thinking there might be hope after all. Respect between Thrasimund and Ennius, and now comradeship among the troops. The XII might turn out to be the strangest legion Rome had ever produced. If it survived.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Canal
On the sixth day since Oppidum, the Legion arrived at the head of an enormous lake. The ground at its fringes was sodden, with small streams winding their way through marsh land, so they had to camp two miles away in order to find dry ground.
The fast pace Julian set had kept the Horde about a day behind, but the price was high. The carts and animals alike were wearing out, fevers were beginning to break out among the civilians, and food supplies were running low. The ground was devolving into swamp and there was precious little time for dead ends.
A local shepherd was found, who spoke a little Latin. He was a small, sturdy man with white hair. His shepherd’s crook had an iron hook at the end. A brilliant green cloak hung from his shoulders. The wrinkles piled so deep on his face they hid all expression, whether of joy or sorrow, making him look placid and implacable.
Julian gave the man bread and salt, and a cup of wine, for he had an important question to ask. He waited impatiently, observing the rustic courtesies. Captain Ennius, who had found the man, stood nearby, along with Avitus. The rest of the Legion was busy building a camp out of mud.
“How big is the lake?” Julian asked.
“Yes, big,” he spread his arms as far as they would go.
“No, I mean in miles. How wide in miles?”
The man thought for a few moments, touching his fingers rapidly with the tip of his thumb. “Thousands,” he said at last.
“Thousands,” Julian said.
The farmer nodded.
“Do you mean hundreds?”
“Yes. Those, too.”
“The man is simple,” Ennius said impatiently. He motioned to a trooper. “Get him out of here. He’s wasting our time.”
“Wait,” Julian said. He took the man by the arm. “We walk,” he said.
The man looked at him, uncertain, but he followed. “We walk?”
“We keep walking,” Julian said. “We are going to walk along the lake, this way. All the way to the Great River.”
The man pulled up short. “I cannot be gone from my animals so long.”
“How long” Julian asked. “How many days to walk that way, to the river?”
There was no thumb-counting this time. “Ten days,” he said promptly.
Julian turned him around and began walking in the opposite direction. “And this way?”
“Five, most times,” the man said. “Six now.”
“Why six?”
The farmer pointed at the ground. He walked in place, splashing in a puddle.
“Mud is deep that way,” he said. “You get stuck, as may be.”
“Oxen? Horses?”
“Sure. Certain sure they are stuck.”
“Thank you,” Julian said. He turned to Avitus. “Get this man a silver coin,” he said, then he turned back to the man.
“You should come with us. Danger is coming.”
The man glanced past Julian’s shoulder.
“I do not see it.”
“It is coming, nevertheless. Terrible creatures.”
“I have heard.” The man shrugged. “It may be they do not come this way but go another way.”
“They will come,” Julian said, as forcefully as he could. He did not like to think of this simple shepherd standing alone as the Horde swept down upon him. “They are most assuredly coming.”
“I will go inside my home and bar the door.”
“They will tear down your door and tear down your home. They are many, and very strong.”
“I will run away.”
“They are fast.”
“I will go into the lake, as may be. Hide in the rushes and they do not see me.”
Julian was uncomfortably aware that his men were watching this exchange.
“It will be safer for you to come with us.”
“I do not leave my flocks.” The man folded his arms and planted his feet, then raised his chin and thrust out his jaw.
“You will die with your flocks,” Julian said, frustrated into being cruel.
“As may be,” the man said resolutely. “There is no better place to die.”
Julian threw his hands up. “Very well! Avi, give him the damned coin. Let’s save the ones who don’t want to die.”
He stormed back to the encampment, where soldiers were busy setting up the General’s tent. Avitus went with him and Ennius followed close behind. Julian pulled up abruptly.
“Captain, please tell my Tribunes to assemble here at their earliest convenience. And Princess Inglena as well. I’ve decided.”
“Decided what?” Avitus asked.
Julian did not answer directly. “Avi, I’ll need a clean cloak and my helmet. I need to look the part.”
Within a quarter hour, all had gathered. Julian wasted no time with preambles. He sketched a quick map showing the lake and the Siret River. He made an X to show the Legion, at the top end of the lake. Nearby, he drew ragged lines to show the location of the Horde.
“We will go between the lake and the river,” he said.
None of the Tribunes spoke, but they eyed each other uneasily.
“Why not go around?” Ennius asked.
“Too far. This is faster by days.” Julian pointed to the narrow strip of land.
“Not much room to maneuver,” Marcus said. The other men nodded at that.
“The goblins also cannot flank us,” Julian replied.
“Won’t that ground be swampy, even worse than we’ve seen?”
“True,” Inglena said, “but goblin feet will sink deep in the mud.”
“So will oxen feet. And carts,” Ennius replied.
“True,” Julian said, “which is why we cannot bring them.”
They all looked at him. Most were puzzled or disbelieving, but Inglena nodded.
“Pardon me, General,” said Marcus, “but that means leaving behind food and supplies, doesn’t it? We still need to eat for six days.”
“We don’t leave all of it. If we make mules of everyone, we can carry enough food for five days. That will get us close. We can go hungry for a day, if it means not letting the goblins feast on us.”
“What about the sick and injured?” Marcus asked
“I know. That’s difficult. They must do the best they can. I have kept everyone with us so far, haven’t I? But now, everyone must run, or they die.”
Each person had someone who they knew could not make it, but each nodded.
“Most importantly, we abandon the livestock,” Julian pressed on. “Drive them off, to the east, as much as possible.”
“Why?” Marcus asked.
“Bait. I expect the goblins to feed, which will delay them at least somewhat. My hope is that the Gniva will think we went around the east side of the lake and will waste time pursuing in that direction. The livestock will buy us hours, maybe even a day or two, and we’re going to need every hour we can get. When we arrive at the Ister, we’ll need those hours to get everyone across.”
Ennius spoke, his voice brittle. “What about the horses?”
“The horses, too, Captain. They’ll sink in the bogs, same as cattle. Once past the lake, we can’t go any faster than our slowest anyway, so scouts need only be on foot. We ne
ed to offer the Horde as much bait as possible.”
Ennius started to speak, but Julian cut him off.
“It will be hard on some of the men, I know, but it is necessary.” He paused. “And it’s an order.”
“I don’t know if my warriors will do this,” Inglena said. “Even the common folk, to leave their herds is no small thing.”
“They are not under my command,” Julian said, “but I would give them this choice: come with the Legion on foot, or stay with their herds. There is no third way.
He went on, addressing them all. “We are out of options, out of room, and out of time. We still have our wits, and I still have my luck. We have to be willing to lose some in order to save the rest. This is the last throw of the dice.
“It is late, but we will do this much: unload the carts. Make sure every man, woman and child carries five days of food. No wine—we will drink river water. If there is time, slaughter some pigs and cook them, but we’ll have no cook fires until we’re safely home.
“We will turn all the animals loose and burn the carts. The fire will keep them from following. Any questions?”
No one spoke, save for a single nightingale voicing its mournful opinion. One by one the officers left. Inglena was the last to go. She looked at Julian a long moment, as if she wanted to say something, then shook her head and walked away.
“I think you have frightened them,” Avitus said after she had gone.
“Good,” Julian said. “Someone besides me ought to be frightened.”
They made a fence of wagons, carts and possessions, everything that could be left behind. On one side of the fence stood people—soldiers, farmers, families. On the other side, in nervous clumps, stood oxen, cattle, goats. And the horses.
Julian had said his own farewell to Bandylegs. The sturdy pony had been uneasy. Julian stroked the animal’s forehead and patted his neck, telling the horse to be calm, that all was well. As he did this, he was keenly aware of others, saying their own farewells, watching him closely, so he kept his own as brief as he could. Even so, he could not help but lean in, at the last moment, to whisper in the horse’s ear.
“When you see them, run, and you’ll be safe.”
All the way back across the muddy field, over the line of wagons, he felt himself the lowest of liars.
They left an arc of fire behind them. An hour before sunset black smoke still obscured the northern horizon, causing the swallows to veer away from their hunting grounds. The tramp of the Legion sounded dismal now. Gone was the lowing of cattle, the cranky bleat of goats, the soothing neigh of the horses. Everyone—whether Roman, Therving or Dacian—knew they had committed a grim crime, however necessary.
A night’s sleep helped, and the next day dawned cloudless, the sun going quickly from sunrise orange to brilliant yellow. They made better time without the baggage, even the cavalry troopers had to admit that much. Even so, scarcely anyone did not at some point glance back to the north, looking for any sign of a dark, ragged line fouling the horizon.
Remmich had run out of food. These past days the land steadily turned into marshes that grew only wet grasses. He had nothing to use to make a trap. When he waded into the clear water of the Siret River, all fishes fled from him. He tried throwing stones at birds, but after a while their angry cries had begun to sound more like laughter.
All the while, he worked his way down the east side of the Siret, keeping the scarlet cloaks in view. He stayed across the river because it was safer there. If anyone noticed the boy, they would hardly try to come after him.
All the while, too, he worked on his idea. At first it was little more than a vague urge, but hunger had somehow sharpened his sensibilities and he was beginning to dream grandly. From the moment he left home he knew he would return, but he could only return as a hero. He would have to do something so wonderful, so extraordinary, that his father, his clan, his tribe, and most of all Alavia, would not only forgive him but welcome him.
In his daydreams, he fought the Gniva face to face. He destroyed the goblin army single-handedly. Over and over again he personally saved Alavia from terrible dangers, and her father bent his knee to him, begging forgiveness. When he granted it, Alavia threw herself into his arms.
Then the dream ended and he could only weep. All he could command was water. What was he going to do, fashion a spear of water? Was he going to rain the goblins to death? Besides, he could only somewhat control water, for every water was different—each had its own song. At most he could call up that song, respond to it, and so work with it. Goblins only fought on land anyway, so how was he even to use his power? It was useless. He mocked himself when this black mood descended, naming himself the Lord of Puddles.
So he passed a day and then another day in mere fancies while his stomach grew emptier and angrier. On the third morning he saw goblins. Not across the river but on his own side, scores of them, well to the north but heading south. He looked again at the Legion with its lion skin standard, its scarlet cloaks and delicious campfires, and he decided to take a chance on the Romans, for he was sure he could not go to his own people. He was rixen.
He stepped into the icy waters of the Siret, plunging his hands deep, feeling its bright song. The currents swept him away and for a brief moment he felt an urgent pull that spoke of wide rivers and a distant sea. He shivered, reached deeper into the water, and the feeling disappeared. The water bore him like a bird on the wind.
He came ashore and drove the water from his clothes, but he was still cold. And hungry. He walked boldly up to the first soldier he met.
“Please sir,” he said, “some food?”
He said it in his native tongue, the only language he knew. But he held his hands out, palms up, then rubbed his belly and made a face, then held out his hands again—a language understood by all.
The centurion said something, then motioned. Remmich followed.
They found a soldier who could speak a little Thervingian. His name was Memmius. Remmich could communicate with him, as long as the topic was basic, but the man did manage to make certain things clear.
He was here on sufferance. Remmich led the Romans to believe he was an orphan which, he told himself, was nearly true.
He could stay, but he must not get in the way. If goblins came—the man pronounced it ghobellensi—he must go to the Thervings, or somewhere. He must not bother anyone nor beg.
The youth agreed to everything.
Three days they marched between the lake and the river. Each day the two drew closer together until, on the fourth day, people began to wonder if the lake and the river would merge. We would be trapped, they told one another in quick, anxious tones. The Roman soldiers worried their General’s luck might be running out.
They had seen no sign of habitation since the old shepherd. The land, where there was any land at all, had become increasingly desolate. On the west, the Siret River surged against the low bank, its steady mutter subsiding as the hours passed and it spread more widely across the flat Dacian plain. Normally sluggish and meandering, the Siret was being hurried by the melting snow from the Carpati Mountains, shoved along like an old man in a crowd. The meanders had disappeared in the spring flood, leaving a wide western sea now limned gold in the sunset.
On the east sat the lake. Reeds as tall as a man forested the shore so densely it was impossible to tell where land ended and water began. Beyond the reed thickets lay an expanse of water that stretched to the horizon. Herons flew low over the brown water in sweeps of gray and white, while clouds of swallows wheeled in and out. Hundreds of low islands, visibly mainly as clumps of rushes and cattails, painted splashes of green amid the brown. From them, as the sun lowered, came the voice of millions of frogs. Fleets of ducks navigated between, seeking a port for the night.
Underneath it all lay the sullen lake, unmoving as a stone. The waters of the northlands, if they were lucky, found their way to the Siret or the Pyretus southward to the River Ister and so to the Euxine Sea. Those that
were unlucky ended here, in stillness and defeat, trapped by the reedy walls and held fast by muck centuries deep.
The Legion slogged its way between these two waters until it reached a wide depression that cut across its path from lake to river. It was choked with bracken and stunted willows, and on the far side engineers staked out that day’s encampment. The River Ister, the Empire, safety, lay a day or less to the south. Scouts reported the Horde roamed mere hours to the north.
Julian came over a low rise, a kind of embankment. Beyond, the Roman camp was already started.
Quick work, he thought. All to the good. Marcus spotted him and came over.
“Ave, General,” Marcus called out.
“Greetings, First Tribune. I see you’ve wasted no time.”
“Certe,” Marcus said, looking pleased with himself. “This is an old river bed, so we’ve got our embankment ready-made. Less work for the boys, this night.”
Julian scanned left and right. He could see the channel plainly: a ditch about eighty or a hundred feet across and six or seven feet deep. At some time, the River Siret had emptied into the big lake, or perhaps it had been the other way round. Long dried up, now.
“But that’s not the good news?”
Marcus showed an almost boyish enthusiasm. It would be fine, Julian thought, to get a bit of good news.
“It’s the River Ister, sir. The scouts say it’s no more than a few hours south, and no sign of goblins. The Captain has four more sent east, around the end of the lake, but they aren’t back yet.”
Julian said nothing.
“Four hours, sir. Maybe less. We were thinking maybe we make a run for it.” He said it as a question, a little uncertainly because the General seemed not to share his enthusiasm.
Julian looked southward, as if he might see the Great River from here.
“It’s too far, First,” he said softly, almost murmuring the words. “We wouldn’t reach the river until dark. After dark—we have only two hours of light left. We don’t know how far back the goblins are, and I’m not going to risk men to find out.”