Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Her face became defensive. “And my sword?”

  “Oh, by all means the sword. I want you to look every inch the barbarian princess.” He grinned.

  “I do not understand Romans, or Roman law, or Roman Generals,” she said, “but I understand men well enough.” She strode away to her tent.

  A table was set up beneath the Legion’s standards. Three men stood up from it as Julian and Inglena approached. He saw their look of apprehension and allowed a small grin to visit his face. She had produced the intended effect.

  For, Inglena looked formidable. Her deerskin leathers showed a pale, sandy color beneath a cloak of white muslin. The cloak was edged with green and yellow thread embroidered into elaborate patterns five inches high at the hem, showing tribal signs. More patterns decorated the cuffs of her sleeves, and a ribbon of green wrapped around her throat. She had wound her hair into two tight braids that ran over her shoulders. Her white sword, slung bare-bladed over her back, gleamed. She had brought Stavanos and Petlaf with her, both in battle garb.

  None of the four broke stride as they neared the table, until their visitors took a half-step back. Only then did Julian break out a full smile of greeting.

  “Salve, Gnaeus Lupicinus!” he called in a hearty voice that said he could not have been happier to see the commander of the XXIII. Julian clasped the other by the shoulders. Lupicinus took another half-step back. He was still recovering as Julian swept forward, leaving the other General face-to-face with Inglena.

  “I have the privilege to present Inglena, Princess of the Thervingian People.”

  Lupicinus opened his mouth to speak, but Inglena smiled radiantly and he made no sound.

  “And two of her brave warriors, Stavanos of the Clan of the Gray Horse, and Thrasimund, chief of the Taifali.”

  Silence ensued. Julian looked the General of the XXIII over. Lupicinus was a slender, fit man of perhaps forty years, with a narrow nose and glaring eyes. It was a wolf’s face. Julian knew a little of the man’s history—knew he was low-born, ambitious, more clever than wise, greedy, with the kind of vanity that comes from inferiority. He was just the sort of man Maximus would use for unpleasant work.

  The General’s standard-bearer, having decided the silence was embarrassing, spoke up.

  “I present Gnaeus Lupicinus, General of the Legio XXIII Vulpex, and representative of Maximus, Governor of Moesia, in all affairs relating to the barbarians.

  “Indeed?” Julian said. “Now, that’s impressive. Is that all barbarians, or just the ones on this side of the river? Because I’ve got quite a collection of them over on that side.”

  Lupicinus scratched one hand with the other and opened his mouth again.

  “Have you eaten?” Julian said.

  “I am here,” Lupicinus said heavily, “on provincial business.”

  “Isn’t that fine? I don’t doubt it, don’t doubt it at all. And a happy coincidence it is, for I am here on imperial business.” He emphasized the word heavily.

  “Hmph! Your business is over there,” Lupicnus nodded toward the Ister. “You appear to have neglected it.” He turned to share a triumphant smile with his standard-bearer.

  “Oh, I’m right were I am supposed to be,” Julian said. “I have an appointment with the Emperor. But come, sit. Let us at least share bread and salt.” He gestured an invitation.

  Lupicinus sat, then almost got up again when Inglena sat next to Julian. She carefully laid her sword on the table before her.

  “Why does she join us?” His wolf eyes glowered.

  “I believe the conversation concerns her and her people.”

  “So it does. Let her mind her place, for this is Roman business. I can state it simply enough: all barbarians are to report to the camps near Marcianopolis. They will be kept there until the Divine Valens, in consultation with the Senate and People of Rome, determines their fate.”

  Julian suppressed a sigh. He knew this was the reason for the visit, though he had hoped otherwise. The rumors were true. All the refugees were to be taken captive.

  “I suppose this is for their own safety,” he said.

  “Of course. And for the safety of our citizens, and to preserve public order. The barbarians are violent and many are thieves.”

  Inglena laid one hand on her sword but did not speak.

  “Here now,” Lupicinus yelped, drawing back. His standard-bearer also put hand to sword.

  “No,” Julian said, “not here, not now. Tell me, has the XXIII been involved in guarding the camps?”

  “We have not,” Lupicinus replied, relaxing slightly. “Our task has been to round up some of the more … reluctant … groups.”

  “Like stray cattle,” Julian said dryly.

  “If you like. Some tribes,” he carefully did not look at Inglena, “have thrown off the protective mantle of Rome. Now, at the first scent of danger, they flee, barging into our homes, stealing our livestock, and crying for help all the while. We owe them nothing, but the Emperor has taken pity.”

  “Pity!” Julian cried as he slapped the table with his open palm, “you take their weapons and their jewels …”

  “To keep the peace,” Lupicinus interjected, “and as recompense for expenses.”

  “Then,” Julian said over the top of him, “when they are stripped bare, you force them to sell themselves into slavery in exchange for food for their children. Is that imperial pity? Will Valens approve of stupidity and greed?”

  Julian had half-risen as he spoke. Lupicinus now stood, and stepped away from the table.

  “Your insults prove the rumors. You have brought these barbarians to further your own illegal actions. But Maximus and Plotinus see through your schemes. By imperial order, the barbarians in your company must report …” He faltered. “Why are you smiling?”

  Lupicinus stumbled to a stop, for Julian was not merely smiling, he was grinning and nodding. He had thought of something.

  “Save your puffed-up pronouncements, General. There are no illegal refugees here.”

  “There are thousands,” Lupicinus exclaimed. “Whole camps! Her!” He pointed, a little tentatively, at Inglena.

  “You are mistaken. These,” Julian’s arms swept wide, “are my clientelae.”

  Lupicinus brayed a laugh. He looked at his men, at Inglena, at Julian, then laughed again.

  “Your clients? No one has had clientelae for centuries.” he said. He squinted at Julian. “You are not serious.”

  “I am.” Julian stood erect, eying the other levelly.

  Lupicinus snorted, but even in that sound Julian heard the uncertainty. “It won’t work,” the man said. He looked at his quaestor, as if that man would provide an answer. “It’s absurd!” His lip pulled back from his teeth as he growled. “It’s illegal.”

  “It may be absurd,” Julian said, “but it is certainly legal. Just because the custom is old does not make it illegal.”

  “There isn’t enough land for them. You would ruin your family.” His voice now questioned as much as stated.

  “Nevertheless, they are my clients and so do not fall under your jurisdiction.”

  Lupicinus made a guttural sound.

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  “That is my problem.”

  Lupicinus turned left, then right, as if looking for solid ground for his feet. He stepped further away. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I will not be alone.”

  “Neither is this your problem, Lupicinus. Don’t make it yours by coming back.”

  Lupicinus hissed, then stormed away, stomping as if he were crushing bugs at each step.

  Inglena stood and picked up her sword. Julian suddenly felt weary and hot, and discovered he was panting.

  “I do not understand what just happened,” Inglena said.

  “Our illustrious General has just made you a member of the family,” Avitus said, his voice colored by amusement and amazement. “All of you.”

  “How can that be?”

  As Lupi
cinus passed out of view, Julian found his voice again.

  “A client, in Roman law, is someone under the hand of a Roman citizen. As such, the client has all the legal protections of his patron.”

  “A slave?” Stavanos said, his tone full of nettles.

  “Not a slave,” Avitus said quickly, “a protected dependent. In the Republic, the client would vote for his patron in elections.” He paused. “But, there are no elections now.”

  “Then what?”

  “It is an old practice,” Julian said, “all but unused for centuries. But Romans never throw out old laws, we just add new ones. This leads to confusion sometimes, but it provides employment for generations of lawyers. And, once in a while, can come in quite handy.” He could not keep the glee he felt from his voice.

  “He spoke of land,” Petlaf said.

  “He is supposed to provide you all with farms,” Avitus explained.

  “Indeed. A difficulty, but we’ll find a solution, eventually.”

  “All?” Inglena looked wonderingly at Julian. “You have so much?”

  “Not really,” Julian said. “As I said, it’s a difficulty. Sometimes you make a bet just to see what the other fellow will do.”

  Inglena whispered Hispania.

  “Eh? What?”

  “Nothing, Julian,” she said. She looked in the direction of Lupicinus, who was rapidly disappearing beyond the horizon of tents.

  “What do you think he will do?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Julian said, “except that it will likely not be to our benefit.”

  He scowled. “The XXIII should be watching the damned river.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Fist and the Flying Tree

  Fist laughed out loud when he saw the flying tree because he had never seen a tree fly and he liked how it looked, all green and brown up in the big, blue sky. He was not hungry yet, and a tree floating through the air was the most interesting thing he’d seen in days.

  So he followed it.

  He lumbered after it, struggling because he tended to lose his balance when he went fast. At first it was hard to watch for the roots-and-rocks that always tried to tangle his feet, but the tree floated along slowly enough, so he was able to keep up.

  The morning was clear and the sun warmed him on one side and that made him happy.

  “Tree!” he shouted. “Sky!”

  Then he stumbled, which made him say “hooo!” and then he paid more attention to the rocks-and-roots.

  Fist did not reckon time, but when the sun was warm on the top of his head, he began to get tired, so he sat down.

  The tree got tired too, because it floated down to the ground, disappearing behind a low rise. He wondered if the tree was hungry, like he was, and then he wondered what flying trees ate, and then he wondered if it might eat him.

  This was an unusual amount of wondering for Fist. He got up again and moved off to see what the tree was eating and if it might share. He was not afraid. He was afraid of very few things: wolves left him alone and boars ran the other way. Bears were scary, but he never challenged a bear and always left the mamas and babies alone. He was afraid of the Bad Bad, though, ever since they had wrecked the village and killed the people. The Bad Bad were why he was here, in the far away, why he was alone, and why he didn't get to eat so much any more.

  He walked and walked and thought about food and then he saw the tree and there were people nearby.

  The tree lay on the ground like a huge green wasp, but it was not eating. Nearby were three people, two sitting, one lying down. He counted them, using the fingers of his good hand: unu, diu, tairu.

  Hunger paced in his stomach. When the light breeze shifted and brought the smell of cooking meat, he lurched forward. One of the people would be nice, he hoped, and would share.

  “Leuva, look there!” one of them called out as he leaped to his feet.

  A second person, an old woman, cursed and jumped up as well, but the third remained on the ground. He appeared to be sleeping.

  “What is it? Is it a bear?” said the one called Sennec.

  Fist looked behind him then looked back at the people. He was glad there was no bear.

  “Can’t be,” said the woman, “it’s waving.”

  Fist waved and grinned and lumbered toward them calling out “Hi hi! Share, share!”

  “Greater gods, look at him. He's in rags.”

  “Looks like a wild man of the forest.”

  “I think he's just lost, Leuva. And what's wrong with his hand?”

  “How big he is! Stay sharp.” The woman draw out a long knife and held it at her side.

  Fist came to a halt a few feet away, still waving and looking around for the food. The woman had gray hair in a long braid, and brown skin drawn tight over sharp bones. Her thin mouth curved downward and her eyes were small and bright. Fist looked away from them.

  The man had red, wavy hair. He was much younger, rangy. He wore leather vest with birds sewn into it with black beads. Fist liked birds.

  The third man lay next to the tree. He looked over, but did not get up. A long staff lay next to him. Fist stood, rocking from one foot to the other, not sure what to do next. He had never been around strangers.

  “Hi hi,” he said, a little out of breath.

  “Hello,” Sennec said. “What's your name?”

  He blinked, and made a face.

  “Sennec,” the man pointed at himself.

  “Fist!” said Fist. He pointed carefully at his own chest with his right hand. He held the other in the air, showing the scarred and deformed club that had never quite become a hand.

  “Hi hi,” he repeated, then looked longingly at the campfire. He licked his lips, making a smacking sound.

  “It figures,” said Leuva, looking to the man. “He’s hungry.”

  “Share share!” Fist said and gave a joyous smile, showing a random scattering of teeth.

  The gray-haired woman’s mouth drew even further down.

  “We can spare it,” Sennec said, “we’re nearly there.”

  Fist collapsed on the ground with a tremendous thump and waited for food to appear, smiling whenever anyone looked at him. After a hushed conversation between the man and the woman, they gave him a loaf of bread, which he devoured at once. They gave him a whole rabbit. Leuva and Sennec ate with him, eyeing him cautiously. Only when all the food was gone did Fist stop eating. Then he said his best words, very carefully.

  “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome, Fist,” Sennec said, smiling at him. Fist grinned back.

  “We are Thervings,” Sennec said. “We've come from the Siret River. Where are you from?”

  Fist raised his heavy eyebrows and shook his head.

  “Where is home?”

  Fist looked all around, as if home might have been dropped somewhere nearby. Finally he shrugged.

  “Near here? Or far away?”

  “Far,” he said, looking at the ground. “Far far away. All gone. Far.”

  “Are you lost?”

  He rubbed his head with his good hand. He wasn't lost, he just wasn't home. Home was all gone, far away.

  “Lost,” he said, and the feeling came and sat on his heart. “Lost lost.”

  He looked at Sennec and the others, and their flying tree, then rubbed his stomach.

  “Friends,” he said.

  “Sure,” Sennec said, “friends.” He smiled and all the lines on his face curved upward.

  “Sennec,” whispered Leuva, “what are you doing?”

  “What else would you do?” he said mildly, still smiling. “Drive him away?”

  Leuva’s eyes were hard. Fist knew that look. Almost he got up to leave, but Sennec’s smile offset Leuva’s frown, and there was the tree over there. He wanted to see it fly again.

  Fist grinned broadly, the only way he knew. “Friends,” he declared, and for the first time in ever-so-long, both his belly and his heart were full.

  The other man
still lay on the ground. He had taken the bit of bread Leuva brought to him.

  “Teias,” she said. “Can you make it?”

  The man slowly got to his feet, propping himself up with the staff. He stood bent over, leaning on the staff. His beard was wolf gray and wrinkles cobwebbed his face. His hair, the same color as his beard, was a wild tangle with fir needles and twigs in it. His leather shirt was stained. He looked at Leuva with steady, dark eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, but his body dragged at every movement.

  He raised the walking stick over his head, as if lifting a great weight. As he did so, the enormous fir rose into the air with a vast rustle.

  Fist jumped to his feet and cheered.

  “Tree!”

  A tiny smile curled inside Teias’ beard.

  “Someone likes my trick,” he said, to no one in particular.

  They set out with Sennec and Leuva in front, like scouts. Then came Teias, holding his stick above his head, with Fist off to one side. The tree rode high above, covering them all with its shadow.

  They walked for an hour with little conversation. Once, Fist was so overcome by the flying tree he shouted aloud, but that was all. Eventually, his mind slowly worked its way around to a question.

  “Where?”

  No one replied. The afternoon, heavy with heat, wore on them and all were wrapped in their own thoughts. So Fist went to Teias, gingerly and with many glances up at the massive tree over his head. He tugged at Teias’ arm.

  “Where?”

  “River,” Teias said through clenched teeth. Leuva glanced back.

  “Fist, don’t bother Teias. He has to concentrate on the tree.”

  Fist wondered how Teias was going to manage to get up to the tree to do whatever ‘concentrate’ was. But since Leuva had spoken to him, he focused on her instead. He hurried forward and drew level with her and Sennec.

  “Where?” he asked for a third time.

  “To the river,” Leuva said curtly.

  “Oh.” Fist had seen many rivers, so this didn’t help much. He knew the tone, though. It meant he should be quiet.

  He looked back at Teias, who trudged slowly but steadily. The man switched the stick from his left to his right hand, which gave Fist an idea. He looked around, spotted what he wanted, and fetched it back. Proudly he held his own stick high in the air.