by Ellis Knox
“I’m going back,” Julian said. “Marcus Salvius, you will go with me. We will speak to the men.”
“What will we tell them, sir?”
Julian winced at the shakiness in the Tribune’s voice.
“First, that the goblins are still on that side of the river.”
“If they cross?” This, from Thrasimund.
“We are Romans. We have faced war by fire before. We know what to do. And, before you speak, we will show our friends and allies what to do also.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, and his voice was steadier. “It will be well for our men to hear that.”
“All they have is numbers. We have the army.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He did not say more, but Julian’s heart supplied the next line.
And now they have fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
On the Move
The goblins moved upstream the next day. Julian sent scouts to track them. When the Horde moved further up river the following day, Julian ordered the Legion out of camp.
“We are going to move with the goblins,” he told Marcus. “I am not letting those monsters out of my sight.”
The Horde did not move in any sensible way. One day it spread for miles along the river bank, and some in the Legion said it might be dissolving. Another day, it was a dark mass that stayed in one place. Sometimes the goblins departed at first light, other times it did not move until mid-afternoon. Once it disappeared altogether for an entire day, then reappeared the next. More than once, Julian saw the Gniva standing on a bank or hillock, surrounded by hobs. On those evenings, goblinfire scarred the sky.
Thrasimund trailed behind at first, black tents and campfires always about two miles away. Julian and he exchanged messengers daily, but still the Taifali chief kept his distance.
Inglena fretted.
“He is too prideful,” she said.
“Pride is necessary in a leader,” Julian replied. “I believe he is offended that he has brought his people to Rome, but Rome has not welcomed him.”
“He should try exile,” she said, bitterly.
“If he marches at my side, he as much as says to his people that their treatment is just.”
“That is true,” Inglena said. “I see that much. But all of us have fought together. Why can’t we be at peace together as well?”
“It takes time to forge steel.”
“Again that is true. And sometimes the steel breaks.”
“You mean Leuva.”
Inglena did not answer.
“Patience. We are not broken yet.”
After a week, and only fifty miles, Julian’s patience was grinding down.
“Following this Horde is dull work, Avi,” he said to the Scythian, as they sat in camp on the eighth day. “Move, then sit. Stand to arms, then sit again.”
“I will gladly take dull over battle,” Avitus replied. He was cleaning up after the evening meal.
“ I suppose I should be grateful we have not added more names to the list of dead.” Julian drained the last of his cup and stood. “I’m headed down to the river to have a look. I wish I knew what was going on in the capital, at least!”
“Ah! I almost forgot,” Avitus said. He rummaged in the travel chest, then stood up with a parchment in his hand. “From Tykonos.”
Julian snatched it from his hand. “Not ‘almost’—you did forget. How long have you had this?”
“Only since we ended the march today. A rider came. You were deep in talks with Marcus Salvius. I put it away so as not to lose it.”
Julian scowled but let it go. The news was not so very old that he should be angry. He sat at his table and spread the parchment out. Avitus opened the tent flaps, but lit a lantern as well.
From Nikas Tykonos to Lucius Julianus Metellus, greetings. If you are well, I am well.
Your letter was most welcome. We have heard all manner of astonishing stories about a certain General Metellus and the XII Legion. Can they truly mean Lucius Julianus, who drinks my wine, brawls in my taverns, and plays dice till dawn? Of all the tales, none are stranger than the intimation of change at which your letter hints. Julian reformed? Julian made serious? I had to drink for a day and a night to recover myself.
I never doubted your ability, my friend, only your desire. You appear to have found that. If Rome has gained a new General, I pray I have not lost my best customer or my dear friend. But enough of that. Your letter tasked me with certain duties, which I have endeavored to fulfill.
Your mother, the Lady Helena, is well. She worries about you, though she is enough of a Roman lady not to show it. Truly, the wild tales that run through the streets, some of which must surely reach her ears, are enough to make a Stoic shudder. So far from wailing or fretting, she sets herself to defend your honor at every turn.
She advises you not to return to the City, for it is not yet safe. Plotinus sharpens his knives. Your mother has thwarted him in the courts, so deftly that he dare not appear there for fear of being laughed at, but he finds other venues. Even now he plots with others in the provinces. I do not know the details, but a trap is being set for you. You are safest in your own legion. They will not dare to touch you there. Instead, they lie in wait, hoping you will step away.
Despite all this, be cheered, for Valens is on his way to the capital. He has defeated the Persians at last, arranged matters in the new province, and comes to the City soon. He brings with him five legions of veterans. There will be nine days of celebrations, three triumphs, and the veterans are to be retired. I plan to make a great deal of money.
Once the Divine Pot-Belly has returned, and you produce your barbarian warriors, all will be well. Fifty thousand or fewer, they must be quite a sight. Best to keep them up there at the border, I should think, as there are nasty rumors of their depredations. All lies, I am sure, for you would never allow such a thing.
The City is dizzy with rumors, from mad monsters to weird sorcery. I hear the most extraordinary things about you. The extraordinary has appeared in Constantinople as well. I have myself witnessed some things that I can neither explain nor comprehend. It is useless to try to describe it; I can only hope to show you. A man has shown up at the Inn who is either a true magician or the cleverest trickster I have seen.
I pray you will be able to return to us soon, but be careful, my friend. Treacherous waters lie all around, and not only from your monsters.
May you out-live your enemies and out-drink your friends.
N. Tykonos
Amicus aeternus
Julian smiled, despite the warnings. “It is good to hear from him,” Julian said. “Here, you read it as well, little bird. We are brothers at the board, right?”
“I should hope so, as many times as I’ve dragged you home.”
“Hush and read.”
While Avitus read the letter, Julian reflected on the warnings. As usual, Tykonos let the most important messages go unsaid. Valens is coming back, though, he thought. No matter the interference from Plotinus, that much at least is good news.
It took three weeks to go from Noviodunum to Troesmis, a journey that should have taken only a few days. Julian was sure the Gniva was looking for ways to cross, for goblins kept wading or jumping into the river until a dozen or a score of them had drowned. Then they would try again an hour or two later. Each time, the Gniva could be seen, watching.
Troesmis was much like any other river town, rather more prosperous than most because it lay at a crossing. The river spread wide here. A large island lay in the middle, rather closer to the right bank where the town stood, than to the side where the Horde clustered. The unfortunate village on the other side was ruined within the first hour, but since then the goblins milled about aimlessly, the way they had on earlier stops.
The island was large enough that trees grew on it, and it raised its head above even the highest floods. Julian stood with his First Tribune, looking as they did each day at the monsters across the way.
“Tell me what you see, Marcus.”
“I see the Great River, General.” Marcus cocked an eye at Julian. “What do you want me to see?”
“A ford. Here in late summer it is possible to cross Mother River, if the sandbars are right.”
“Yes, sir. The XII is a border legion. We know all the crossings.”
“Right. And if you wanted to get the Legion across, without boats, where would you try?”
“Right here.” He looked askance at Julian. “Is this a trick question?”
“Not at all. From Digetia to Oescus, this is the best crossing. And look, the goblins do not even try.”
“Lucky for us.”
“Better than luck, it’s ignorance. Luck is fickle. Luck can change, but ignorance abides! These creatures don’t know how to cross a river, not in any military sense.”
“I suppose not.”
“Cheer up, First! This is good news. It means Mother River may turn them back after all.”
“As the General says,” Marcus said. After a few moments, he added, “but they are still there.”
“Marcus,” Julian said without rancor, “you would make rain out of sunshine.”
“How long do we shadow these creatures?” Marcus asked.
“As long as need be,” Julian answered. “Why?”
“Because exactly that. The further we travel, the more we spread out. Goblins trail behind or cast ahead, and we must send men out to keep them in sight.”
“I know this, First. Eventually we will spread too thin, and be too weak to stop any successful crossing.”
“Just so.”
“But there is help at Duros. The XXIII is stationed there.”
“It is,” Marcus said.
“You sound somewhat less than encouraging,” Julian said. “There they go again.”
Across the river, goblins were wading out into the water. One managed to get a good fifty feet away from shore before drowning.
“I wish they’d all just charge in and let Mother River swallow them.”
“Wish and pray, Marcus, but I swear that Gniva is controlling them somehow. Ordering them. Something.”
“The XXIII is commanded by Gnaeus Lupicinus,” Marcus said.
The tone of voice caught Julian’s attention. “Is he that bad?”
“He is … unstable,” Marcus said, after obviously searching for the right word.
Julian raised an eyebrow.
“Always looking for glory,” Marcus explained, “which is hard to come by on river patrol.” He made a wry face. “But he’s prone to fits of temper. He’s been in the limitanei too long, by his own judgment.”
“You know the man?”
“Better than I would wish.”
“I’ll handle him when the time comes,” Julian said, putting confidence into his voice. “The XXIII is still a legion. More men to add to the watch. Even if it’s only to watch goblins drown.”
On the thirty-third day, the XII reached Duros. Julian set camp a mile down river as a courtesy, and sent word to the town’s fortress: to Gnaeus Lupicinus, Commander of the XXIII Vulpex, greetings and an invitation to discuss, over dinner, Rome’s new enemy, called ‘goblin’ in the Therving tongue.
The messenger was gone two full hours. He returned looking both baffled and uncomfortable. Julian met with him outside the tent, which was stifling. Avitus brought water for them both.
“Sir, I tried to deliver your message, sir, truly I did. That’s why it took me so long. Sir.” He was a young man, with clear eyes and a thin, blond beard.
“Stand easy, soldier,” Julian said, “just report.”
“I went to the fort, sir, as instructed. But,” he shifted feet, scratched at his head then snatched his hand away again. “… er … please don’t be mad, sir ….”
“I’ll be mad if you stretch this out any longer,” Julian said. He scowled fiercely, but inside he smiled at the youth’s discomfort.
The soldier straightened.
“I could not deliver your message, sir, because General Lupicinus is gone, sir, and the legion with him.”
“Gone? Where to?” Julian had a sudden, sinking feeling. “Not over the river, I hope!”
“No sir. I asked some locals. They said the XXIII left over a month ago to deal with … they called it ‘the barbarian problem’ sir.” He leaned forward slightly. “I think they mean the Thervingi, sir.”
Julian suppressed an oath. He thanked and dismissed the soldier, who left as if escaping.
“What’s it mean, master?” asked Avitus.
“Trouble,” Julian said. “In the face of the enemy, we brew up our own trouble. It’s a Roman specialty, little bird.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
You Cannot Have Them
A river ran into the Ister River across from the town of Duros. Its waters were still spread wide from the spring floods and this seemed to stop the Horde for the time being. Julian encamped the Legion outside the town.
For five days the two forces sat on either side of the river. Each day Julian and others went to the river’s edge and each day found the Gniva staring across at them, its crimson head easy to see as it towered over the others. Each day Julian was sure it was looking directly at him. No goblins hurled themselves into the Ister; they simply gathered along the shore, all of them staring across the water.
On the sixth day, they were gone.
Julian waited a day. When no goblin appeared, he sent the scouts. They went in groups, Therving and Roman together, one group in the morning, another in the afternoon. When they began to return, they brought uncertain news. The goblins had left the Ister, going up the tributary many miles. Were they going to the mountains, in pursuit of Fritigern? Or were they merely finding a crossing, to return once more to the Ister?
“I rather like the river,” Julian said as he stood on the rocky bank, “now that it’s not lined with goblins on its further shore.”
The countryside was overrun with color. Willows stroked the river banks with slender green fingers under a blue sky dotted with white clouds. The last hints of winter’s cold were gone, even in the black of deep night. Toward sunset the air came alive with gnats in low, swirling clouds while a chorus of frogs sang hello to the night.
He and Inglena were walking with Thrasimund to their camps. Julian looked across the Ister, whose waters sparkled in sheets of sunset gold. It was just light enough to see the goblins as a line of dark on the far shore.
“I wish I understood them,” he continued, once they were at the top. “The goblins, I mean. Our scouts report them in every direction. Has the Horde dispersed?”
Inglena joined him, peering as if she might suddenly see for a thousand miles.
“I do not think that,” she said. “Only if the Gniva dies does the Horde scatter, and there is no one to kill it.”
“There’s me, if I could get to it,” Julian said.
“Or myself, or any one of us,” Inglena said, “but we cannot get to it.”
“Well,” Julian said, walking again, “first we must find it.”
“I agree. Your scouts or ours, the Gniva will be found.”
Thrasimund left them, to consult with his chiefs. Ahead lay the Roman castrum with its earthen wall topped with spikes. Nearby, the rixen camp, now formed in the Roman style. They had no wall of earth, but they arranged their tents in a square with avenues, the perimeter protected by a field of spikes. Only a space of fifty yards separated the Roman from the magicians. Julian now halted in the space between.
“Thanks for your help, Inglena.” He glanced back in the direction of the Therving camp, still arranged by clan in their tent circles. They had begun rebuilding their herds; a few hundred goats, tended in common. They had even begun training new dogs.
“I have not asked you how it goes between the Tribes and the Exiled. You still camp separately.”
“Yes,” she said. “Thrasimund was wise. I had pushed too hard to end Exile completely. Now, we leave it up to family
and clan to accept the Exiled. A few have. Not many, but enough to give me hope.”
She looked toward her camp. “One day, the only tent there will be my own.”
“And then?”
She did not answer right away. A soldier hailed them.
“General,” he called, “there you are.”
“Truly, here I am.”
Julian’s humor no longer flustered his staff. The man did not miss a beat.
“A delegation awaits you at the principium. From the XXIII, sir.”
“Who is in this delegation?”
“General Gnaeus Lupicinus himself, along with his standard-bearer and a quaestor. They did not give their names.” The soldier wiped his brow. The evening was warm.
“Tell the General that I …” he glanced at Inglena, “that Princess Inglena and I will be along presently. Offer them food and cool wine; keep them comfortable.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, and left at a trot.
“The XXIII is the legion that has been taking Dacian and Thervingian refugees to camps,” Inglena said.
“You have a right to sound bitter,” Julian said, “but I want you to hear what he says. I doubt it will be pleasant, but I beg you to hold your temper.”
“Hold … my temper?” She was puzzled.
“Don’t show anger,” he explained, “even if you feel it. The XXIII is operating within Roman law, a thing so complex even Romans don’t fully understand it. A wrong step here could endanger all your people. So, please, let me do the talking.”
She studied his face a moment, then nodded. “I will go,” she said. “I will not show anger. But I will remember the words.”
“Good enough. One more thing. Go put on your deerskin battle garb, and your white robe, the one with all the embroidery.”