by Ellis Knox
He found a spot where cross beams and supports intersected. It wasn’t quite a platform, but it was enough to set Teias down. His right arm ached terribly. He looked at the man and tried to tell if he still lived. He wasn’t sure how to tell, but he knew Teias did not answer and did not open his eyes. He knew dead people did that, though sometimes dead people’s eyes were open and wouldn’t close. He pushed that memory away as soon as it appeared.
Weakness swept over him and his legs trembled. He sat down, on a beam just wide enough for his rear, and leaned against a crossing beam. He began a chant: Hide hide. Under under. Hide hide.
The pounding above got louder until he could feel the bridge itself vibrate. Fist thought all the goblins in the world were up there. Every so often he saw bits of the tree fall into the water. Every so often, too, he saw a goblin fall into the water. He said “hah” each time that happened.
A goblin managed to get onto the scaffolding. Fist looked at Teias and then all around wildly, but he was alone. He started shouting at it, waving his clubbed hand, but it came on, not jumping but sliding its feet along the beam. When it was close enough, it leaped.
Fist closed his eyes and swung. His fist caught the creature on its outstretched arm, spinning the beast around. It crashed into him, caromed off, and fell to its death below. A wave of something fiery swept through Fist and he screamed and screamed at the fallen goblin. Then he cried for a whole minute.
He tried to wake up Teias, to tell him. When the man remained motionless, Fist sat down again, whispering hide hide, and listening to the pounding of clawed goblin feet four yards above his head.
The thundering went on all day, an unending roar, as steady as a waterfall. Fist grew afraid, grew angry, grew tired, then started over again. His body hurt and his stomach was empty. In the afternoon he was hot and so was happy to see the sun go down. Then he began to get cold and he wished the sun would come back.
Teias was cold, too. Fist took off his own shirt and tried to wrap him up, but he himself got too cold and took the shirt back.
“Sorry. Cold.” With great care he propped Teias up against a stone support, then sat next to him. He took Teias’ hands into his own and nuzzled his big head against the man’s shoulder. “Cold,” he said again.
He fell asleep.
He woke up once, dreaming he was falling. He spasmed, trying to reach out in all directions like a man falling from a cliff, but only bashed his hand against a support. He gasped for air and tried to settle his heart.
It was very dark and very quiet.
That made him stop. He looked up and listened, but heard nothing except the whisper of water far below.
“Bad Bad gone,” he said to himself, but changed his mind. Once before he thought they had all gone because he heard no more noise from the village, but they were only sleeping. He pictured the bridge covered with sleeping goblins and sighed. He checked on Teias, who even colder. The touch made him sad. He gave Teias his shirt again, draping it over his shoulders, then he wrapped the man with his own arms.
Still troubled by dark images and the river’s muttering, Fist fell asleep once more.
When he awoke again he saw the sun and felt its warmth. And he heard a voice.
“Fist, Teias, wake up.”
It was Sennec.
Fist ached all over. He looked down, got terribly dizzy and closed his eyes. Teias was a cold, hard lump beside him.
Sennec called out again. This time, Fist answered.
“Help.”
“Fist, are you all right? Where’s Teias?”
Fist did not know which question to answer.
“Fist, where is Teias?”
“Here,” Fist said.
“Wake him up.”
“He won’t wake up.”
Sennec said something Fist could not hear. Teias was very cold, but so was Fist. He tried to take his shirt back, but Teias was all stiff and would not move. Fist shoved him and Teias toppled over. For two long seconds Teias fell through a lattice of sunlight, then he hit the water and disappeared in a shadowed splash.
“Fist?” Sennec called.
“Teias fell,” Fist said. “He fell down.”
For a long time Sennec was saying things and pacing along the edge of the river. At last he quieted, then called out again.
“Fist, you have to come down. More goblins will come. We have to get away.”
Fist whispered bad bad. Aloud he said, “I don’t know how.”
“Follow the struts. Keep coming toward me and you’ll be fine.”
It took nearly an hour. Fist kept balking, afraid to work his way around a support beam, afraid let go of one grip to take another, or simply afraid. He did not like how his stomach felt or how his heart felt, and he kept seeing Teias, crumpled, falling into the river. But Sennec called out encouragement, telling him about his king named Fritigern, who lived in the mountains and would protect him. Fist whispered bad bad to himself, and somehow he kept going.
Only when he had dropped the final two feet onto solid ground and had scrambled away from the soft mud of the river’s edge, did Fist remember. He asked about Leuva.
“Dead,” Sennec said. “The goblins came to us. Her sounds worked. We tried to hide, but they found her.” He started to say something more, but shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Neither did Fist.
“Listen, Fist,” Sennec said. “It’s just the two of us. We need to go.”
“Where?”
Sennec pointed north. “There,” he said. “Into the mountains, where the goblins do not go.”
“Good,” Fist said.
“Good,” Sennec said.
The two climbed out of the river valley. Behind them, Constantine’s Bridge stood under the July sun. Across its back lay an enormous fir tree, half-stripped of its branches, its bark scarred by countless claws.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Elevation of Lupicinus
Another set of scouts reported in the morning bringing the same grim news: they had lost sight of the Horde.
For over a week scouts had kept Julian apprised of the Horde’s movement. It had moved away from the Ister then, finding a ford in the tributary, had turned west again, spreading out across the land. Scouts had to choose to follow this swarm or that. The swarm split and split again until the scouts realized they were only following a random pack. The Horde was somewhere well up river, but where exactly it was, no one knew.
The morning’s scouts had barely finished with their apologies when Marcus Salvius entered. His eyebrows pulled low over his eyes, his big beard jutted forward at the jaw, his head was lowered as if he were about to charge. He looked like a black cloud about to burst.
“The XXIII approaches, General.”
Julian stood. “The whole legion or just Lupicinus again?”
“They are drawn up in formation, sir. Word is they’ve come for the rixen.”
Julian nodded. “Right. Put our boys in the way, First. No, wait. Put them at the side. I don’t want Inglena to think she needs protecting.”
Marcus looked doubtful. “It’s the full legion, sir.”
“So it is. And we’ll take them in flank, if need be.”
Marcus saluted and hastened out.
“Time to suit up, Avi,” Julian said to his slave, who poked his head inside once Marcus left. “We may have a bit of business today.”
Two Roman legions faced each other under a pale blue sky. Red cloaks stirred in a passing breeze.
The Legio XII Heraclea stood to the side of the rixen camp. The rixen themselves were gathered closely together, with Inglena and a handful of followers out front. The rixen wore linen or washed wool. Their leader wore deerskin battle garb.
By her side stood Julian. With him were his standard-bearer, Ursinus, and Avitus. On her other side, the leader of the Therving warriors, who for once stood rather than rode.
Opposed to them was the Legio XXIII Vulpex, commanded by General Gnaeus Lupi
cinus. He, too, stood forward a little, flanked by the Legion’s First Cohort. The soldiers kept glancing at the rixen, at the Thervings, and at the XII.
Lupicinus approached until he was only a few feet away. He spoke, his voice shrilling as he tried to make himself heard by all.
“General Metellus, why do you bring your soldiers?”
Julian raised a hand in greeting. “And a good day to you as well, Gnaeus Lupicinus. I bring my men to ensure order.”
“The XXIII can do that, I thank you. Stand aside, General. I want no violence.”
Julian took a moment to survey the XXIII. The men were armed and armored, hands on hilts, shields up, helmets on.
“It does not look that way from here. You look ready for battle.”
“Only if they resist,” Lupicinus said. “There have been problems with other refugees.”
“I do not doubt that. But these people are under my protection, as I explained before.”
“You did not explain anything,” Lupicinus said, “you made a poor gamble, that’s all.”
Under his breath, Avitus said, “uh oh.”
“I made the Thervingi my dependents,” Julian said. “That was a stratagem, not a gamble. Do you fare well with the dice, Lupicinus?”
Julian concocted a smile. He knew of Lupicinus’ gambling debts.
“But you failed,” Lupicinus pressed on, ignoring the taunt. “The Governor recognized your clientelae. As your clients, they are protected.”
He paused for effect. Too late, Julian realized where the other man was headed.
“But as your clients, they are now bound by Roman law, and sorcery is illegal. I am here to arrest that woman,” he pointed a finger at Inglena, “and all her witches.”
Inglena and Thrasimund drew swords at the same moment. Swords rattled among the legions as well, but Julian heard Marcus call out “Easy now. Wait.”
Thrasimund said evenly, “Remove your finger from her face, or I shall remove it from your hand.”
Lupicinus turned to Julian and said, “See? They would shed blood over trifles.”
But he lowered his hand.
“Not everyone here is a sorcerer,” Julian said.
“I intend to take them all. Those not guilty will be released to the detention camps.”
“Never!” Thrasimund shouted. He waved his sword at the XXIII.
“Lupicinus,” Julian said quickly, “you came here looking for a fight. You hope some warrior will give you reason to capture them all.”
“I only serve justice,” Lupicinus sneered.
“And I only serve Rome,” Julian said.
“Hah. Is that why you burned down the house of Plotinus in the night? Is that why you have fled the enemies of the Empire, rather than fight them?”
“Dog!” Julian shouted, his temper flaring like a fire in his blood, “are you Plotinus’ bitch now? Do you fuck the nobles and birth their lies?”
Lupicinus’ dark face turned darker. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.
“Better than fucking witches,” he snarled. “Your emperor ordered you to bring warriors, and you bring him … this.” He waved a hand in contempt. “You dishonor your father.”
Julian lunged forward. He heard swords ringing as they came out of Roman sheaths. He stopped himself inches from Lupicinus.
“You dishonor the army, little wolf,” he said. He was past fury now, and had settled into a cool rage.
“Do you defy imperial orders?”
“Those orders came from Maximus, not from Valens, who is smart enough not to give responsibility to fools.”
From behind him, Julian heard Inglena’s voice, bright and cool.
“I will speak now.”
Julian backed away. She put a hand on his arm and spoke to him softly. “Please do not concern yourself.” She looked to her side. “Thrasimund, let your warriors stand easy.”
“He will take you by force,” Julian said.
“No.”
“People will die.”
“Not my people. Or yours, if you will trust me.”
Julian frowned. “You cannot fight them, not another legion.”
“Not the whole legion, I think.”
“What’s that mean? Inglena, I don’t want to pit Roman against Roman, but I cannot let that dog’s ass take you away.”
“He will not. Trust me. Right now, you have broken no laws. Thrasimund has broken no laws. We are the only illegal ones. Trust me. We have been outlaws before. We know what to do.”
Julian knew that to fight would be madness. Worse, it would be a sentence of death. More than the logic, though, something in her tone persuaded him. He stepped away and motioned to Marcus Salvius to stand down.
“All right,” he said aloud. “But the XII will stay close. As observers.”
“Observe all you want,” Lupicinus said, stepping back. The triumph in his voice was plain. “And I will observe at your trial once you return to the capital. Meanwhile, stay out of my way. Tribune, follow me!”
Julian choked back a retort. He spoke quietly to Ursinus. “Tell Marcus to move in echelon along the flank. Ask Chief Thrasimund to do the same. At least we can be in position, if need be.”
Ursinus nodded.
Lupicinus moved, followed by the XXIII’s First Cohort. The men moved tentatively, but they followed. Inglena rejoined her people, and was now in the company of several rixen, with more behind her. At her side was a woman Julian did not recognize. She had bright red hair and stood with her hands rigidly at her sides.
Lupicinus drew near.
“He plans to put his own hands on the Princess,” Avitus muttered.
“He may be sorry about that,” Julian whispered back.
“If he touches her, she’ll whittle his hands down to stumps.”
“She could,” Julian agreed, “but I certainly hope she does not.”
“I hope she does.”
When Lupicinus was about ten feet away, he declaimed in a loud voice, “I arrest you by the laws of Rome and in the name of the Divine V…” but he choked on the Emperor’s name. Even has he began speaking, the red-haired woman began raising her arms in front of her, palms up. As she did so, Lupicinus’ feet began treading air. Somewhere between “laws of Rome” and “Divine Valens” he noticed.
And shrieked.
“Sorcery! You see? Help! What?”
His legs began to churn wildly, then his arms started up a counterpoint that gained urgency as he gained height.
“Put me down!”
Julian had to look away, to keep from laughing. He turned again, though, when the shrieking lapsed into incomprehensible wailing. He looked up.
Lupicinus was thirty feet above the ground, with his feet pointed to the sky.
The woman began to walk. As she moved, so did Lupicinus. As she drew near the soldiers of the First Cohort, they shuffled aside, making a path for her.
“Look at their faces,” Julian said.
“They’re terrified,” Avitus said.
“As well they should be.”
Other rixen went with the woman, a dozen or so. They did nothing; it was enough that they looked as though they could.
When she reached the XXIII’s standard, the woman moved her hands, and Lupicinus was feet-down again. She turned her palms downward, and he slowly lowered to the ground. As his feet touched, he staggered, fell, got back up again. The woman spoke.
“I did not drop you this time,” she said, so all could hear. “Maybe next time I am not so strong. Do not come back to test me.”
Lupicinus began cursing, the same three words over and over, but he did not make a move toward her as she walked away. He shouted for the XXIII to attack, but the other rixen stepped forward. Lupicinus stopped shouting. His men were so close to panic, even he could see it.
Lupicinus pointed at Julian, his hand shaking. “This is your doing,” he said.
“Mine?” Julian placed his hand on his chest in earnest innocence. “I have done nothing.”
He looked around as if to appeal to the crowd. “Did you see me do anything?”
“I don’t believe you for a moment. You were behind it. What is your role here?”
“My role? I am a true son of Rome.”
Lupicinus clawed at his own neck as if some insect had attacked him. “This isn’t over,” he shouted, then he all but ran away, disappearing into the protection of his troops, berating them as cowards as he went.
“And you, little wolf, are a true son of a bitch,” Julian muttered. He walked over to Inglena.
“Princess, did you have this planned all along?”
“I did.”
“It was damned risky,” he said, trying hard to be serious.
“It was a gamble.” She said it stone-faced, and that was too much. Julian broke into laughter.
“This isn’t funny,” Avitus said, angrily. “That is to say, it was very funny, but what happens next? Lupicinus will go running the Maximus.”
“Which won’t matter,” Julian said, regaining control.
“And they’ll both go to Valens.”
“Oh no they won’t. They would both look like fools, and Cousin Maximus is at least smart enough not to do that. Not with the Emperor.”
“Well,” Avitus said, “you have stomped the snake for now.” He looked in the direction of the departing XXIII. “But I worry he has some venom left in him.”
“General, you should see this.”
Julian got up at once. The look on the First Tribune's face told him it was something serious. Outside the tent, two horses were waiting.
He followed Marcus out of the camp, toward the river. They rode about a mile west, to a knoll that overlooked the Ister. As they rode, Julian wondered what could have his First Tribune so worried. Something to do with the Horde, certainly. Had they returned? Were they trying some new sort of crossing? He pictured rafts with monsters clinging to one another in the middle, or a fleet of boats that he had somehow overlooked, rowed by human slaves.
They climbed the little rise and Marcus motioned toward the river. The sun was well up by now, in a wide sky empty of clouds. Today would be another hot one. The Great River was its usual shade of muddy green. All seemed normal except for a dark mass in the center channel. He looked more closely.