by Ellis Knox
It was an enormous tree. A fir hung up on a sand bar, with many branches hacked away. This was strange enough. Stranger still were small dark shapes in the water, some of them tangled in the branches.
“Goblins?”
“Hundreds of them. We started seeing bodies at daybreak. Didn't think much of it; we see a corpse or two every day, sometimes several at a time. We figure it's them trying to cross, yes? But today they kept coming.”
Something in the man's voice made Julian glance over. Marcus was staring upstream. His angular face was highlighted in the morning sun, showing wrinkles and gray beard. Julian looked away. He didn't want to think of his First as old, or even as tired.
“They just kept coming,” Marcus repeated. “And then that big damned tree. Where in seven hells did that come from? No tree like that grows near the river.”
“Maybe the creatures saw it—drifted down from the Iron Gates or Rhaetia, maybe—and tried to cross on it.” Julian knew that was wrong as soon as he had said it.
“No sir, we considered that. A tree that size couldn't drift hundreds of miles, and anyway there's too many bodies. Big as it is, it couldn't hold so many. We counted two hundred or more, and they're still coming.”
“Every one we see is one less to fight,” Julian said. He swatted at the cloud of flies that had gathered.
Marcus glanced over but said nothing.
“I know. Two hundred less than a quarter million.” He stared out at the river again, at the massive tree already sliding beyond the hillock. The water to the east sparkled cheerfully as it bore its cargo of corpses to the Mouths, where they'd likely rot away among the reeds. He wondered if goblin corpses were poisonous to fish or fowl.
“I don't know what to make of this, Marcus.”
“Nor do I, General. But I knew you would want to see this with your own eyes.”
Julian frowned. Too many mysteries, too many things he did not understand.
“Rider,” Marcus said.
Julian looked. The summer had baked the land hard, so that only a faint wisp of dust trailed up from behind the horse. A single man, riding hard. Julian frowned: bad news gallops.
The rider was Captain Ennius himself, an omen more evil still. He rode up to them and reined in hard.
“The monsters are over the river,” he gasped. “A week ago.”
Julian glanced at the river, upstream.
“How?” Marcus asked.
“There are different stories. I’ve heard they found boats and made humans bring them over. Or that they used magic. Or …,” he hesitated, “the sorcerers helped them.”
Julian gave him a sharp look.
“Not I, sir. Locals. Peasants.”
“What about the XXIII?” Julian asked.
Ennius spat.“He’s been too busy shepherding barbarian refugees and selling them in the slave markets until it was too late. He turned his shields and ran. Sucidava has fallen.”
“Gods,” Marcus whispered.
“The Emperor has summoned all troops, including the XII. We're to march at once for Hadrianopolis.”
Julian nodded. “Ready the legion. Leave the wagons; this will be another hard march. I'll tell the Thervingi. We leave after the midday.”
Before he followed them, Julian glanced once more at the fir tree in the water. Mother River was supposed to keep the goblins out forever. It had held exactly two months. He saw black dots floating in the low water. Whatever had happened upstream didn't matter now. The monsters were across.
“Go,” he said to his horse, and dug heels into her flanks. “Run.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Roses and Kings
The Legion left the River Ister the next day. The trumpets alarmed the flamingos, and the sky was sheeted over with scarlet and white and pink as the soldiers moved out. Shrieks and honks filled the air, sounding like geese with no sense of melody.
Riders went out from the Legion at first light, Therving as well as Roman. Some followed Mother River while some turned inland, all save one heading westward, looking for the Horde.
“We cannot let them get between us and Constantinople,” Julian said.
A lone rider cut south, racing ahead of the Legion, with orders to find out if Valens was on the march yet and, if so, to where. The Legion followed, working its way up the River Iatrus toward the Haemus Mountains.
“They won’t keep the goblins out,” Julian said, meaning the mountains, “but perhaps they will slow the Horde a little, and perhaps a little will be enough.”
“The mountains will slow us as well,” Marcus said.
“Ever the optimist, eh, First?” Julian grinned. “You’re right, but we travel as one, whereas the narrow passes to the west will disperse the goblins. Their own numbers work against them, at least for a while.”
Julian imposed a furious pace, threatening to leave behind anyone who could not keep up or who strayed. In the event, no one strayed, and everyone kept up.
After a day on the river’s flood plain, the road—a fine, Roman road, well maintained—canted sharply upward. Beech replaced willow, then ash and fir replaced beech. The road wound over the backs of bare hills, then dove into heavy forest to reappear still higher up. The forested stretches were welcome, as the days were hot and getting hotter. Two days of steady climbing, broken only by precipitous slopes into dark ravines, brought the XII to the Shipka Pass.
There Julian paused beside a small, emerald-colored lake to look back northward. The Ister River was a blue line drawn across a green landscape.
“It’s strange,” he said to Avitus, “but I feel almost as if I was born out there, beyond the Great River. I am not the same man who crossed the Ister a few months ago.”
Avitus regarded his master.
“Does that mean you are not the man who owns me?”
Julian grinned briefly. “If I am not, then you must be free.”
“Then you must be the same man. You are still Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the Legio XII Heraclea. You still have the Legion; ergo, you still have me.”
“You are too unpleasant to be got rid of by sophistry, I suppose. But look, a scout returns.”
In full haste the man came, urging his horse up the steep slope of the summit.
“Salve, General,” he called as he drew near. Without waiting for a reply, he gave his news in a breathless tumble. “Horde sighted, sir. I got as far as Securisca—a little more than halfway to Oescus—when I spotted them. Thousands, General.”
“Headed south?”
“Hard to say. Headed every which way, as they do, if you know what I mean. But I saw some at the feet of the Haemus Mountains, right enough. Didn’t stay long; I had my orders.”
After that, Julian drove them even harder, staying on the march until a mere hour before sunset. Over the next few days, they made their way by forced marches out of the mountains, descending into a rich valley bedecked with roses. Huge fields of red and white and every shade in between, the air thick with their wine scent. Even the road itself was lined with rose bushes as tall as a horse, cascading over walls and climbing elegant trestles. It was hard to think, looking at the valley with its unwalled villas, its happy, burbling river, and its blanket of red and white, that there could be anything like goblins anywhere in the world.
Between the Legion and the town proper was a low, wide hill. All over its top stood a series of structures irregularly spaced. Inglena asked about them.
“Those are the tombs of the Ordysae kings,” Julian explained, “Assuming this is the Rose Valley, which I rather think it is, and if I remember my Herodotus, which I rather think I do.”
“Careful, Princess,” Avitus called, “he’s showing off for you. It’s a form of flirting, for him.”
“Don’t be vulgar, little bird,” Julian retorted.
Inglena laughed. “I don’t mind,” she said lightly. “This is such a pretty place, I would like to hear more about it. I did not think you Romans had kings.”
“We do not,” Julian said. “These were Ordysian kings, also known as the Kings of Thrace. The tombs you can see were looted long ago, but legend says there are many more beneath the ground, including King Terys himself.”
“Such strange tombs, they are,” Inglena said, “at least to me.”
“They are strange to most people,” Julian said.
The tombs were like rounded pyramids, conical, not unlike a beehive. Constructed of mud bricks, they rose twenty feet high. Whatever entrance had once existed was long since walled up, but looters had carved their own openings. Each tomb was dusty brown with faint patches of discoloration as the only sign they had once been brightly painted.
“The Odrysae were great hunters—better hunters than kings, by most reports. They were a constant grievance to the Macedonians until King Philip the Argive broke them and then Alexander the Great tamed them.”
“I have heard of him!” exclaimed Inglena, “only we call him Eskandor. He is said to have killed a Gniva with his bare hands.”
Julian smiled. “The legends about Alexander are the only thing greater than the man himself.”
Inglena looked back as they passed the hill of tombs. “He ended the Kings of Thrace?”
“Oh no. They, like the rest of the world, survived your Eskandor. No, it was Rome that ended the Odryssians, just as we ended so many other kingdoms. Julius Caesar did that. Or maybe it was Crassus.”
Inglena looked at Julian blankly. He frowned slightly.
“Gaius Julius Caesar?” he asked, incredulous, trying not to sound insulting.
“Choolius. The name is like yours. Is he an ancestor?”
Avitus burst into laughter and Julian could not help but join him.
“You could not name a more unlikely ancestor, Princess,” Avitus said, then he broke into snorts of more laughter.
“Well and good,” Inglena said, a little irritated. “At least this is a pretty valley and a pretty town.” She kicked at her horse. “I shall go look, and forget about your Choolius.”
Avitus and Julian exchanged glances. Then Avitus said, “Hail, Caesar,” and they both broke into guffaws once more.
The day after they left the valley, word at last came about Valens. At camp that evening, a rider came bearing a letter from Tykonos. Julian read it in his tent after supper.
To Julian, in haste
Valens is headed your way with five legions.
The triumphs went as planned, but before the Emperor dismissed his legions, he gave them games. Rumors of your barbarians and monsters had flooded the City, putting everyone on edge, despite the festivities. The boil burst at the final races at the Hippodrome.
It was said Valens did not want to attend, fearing the mob might disrupt the games. He has a sense for the temper of the crowds, and he was right. Mutterings, shouts, even some chants erupted. Save the City, o Divine Valens, they called out. Crush the invader—I was not sure if they meant your goblins or the barbarians.
Then it happened. Some fool got hold of a goblin head and displayed it before the crowd. They went mad. With one voice they called upon Valens to save the Empire. Valens had the man executed, but it was too late. The people all but rioted until he agreed to go.
Julian looked up, frowning. Avitus looked at him with obvious curiosity, but Julian shook his head. How did anyone get hold of a goblin corpse? His scouts had lost contact with the Horde, and now this. He returned to the letter.
He leaves tomorrow for Hadrianopolis. Your Lady Mother urges you to go there as well. If you are seen springing to the Emperor’s side, all other grievances will fade. As ever, Lady Helena speaks sense.
She also says to tell you this. Valens’ nephew Gratian, Augustus of the West, has pacified the Germans. He has twenty-eight legions at his disposal and has offered to help. Valens dreads that help, convinced that his nephew intends to unseat him and replace him with his own man, that he will use this as an excuse to intervene. Valens fears his nephew more than he fears your goblins.
Julian handed the letter to Avitus.
“Bring Marcus and Ennius, Inglena and Thrasimund,” he said, after Avitus had finished reading the letter. ““We must hurry even faster.” He stood up. “But I do wish Tykonos would stop calling them ‘my’ goblins.”
Julian shared his news as soon as the three arrived. The Emperor was coming, with his veterans, about forty thousand in all.
“So few!” Thrasimund said.
“They are veterans,” Marcus said, “the very best of Rome.”
When Thrasimund looked doubtful, Ennius chimed in. “They beat the Persians,” he said, but this changed the Chief’s expression not at all.
“Still so few,” he repeated.
“There are more legions in Germania,” Marcus said. “Gratian will add more, if Valens will wait.”
“How many?”
“Many. He has twenty-eight legions. If he brings only half, it will still mean as much as a hundred thousand.”
“Will Valens wait?”
“I’m sure he will,” Marcus said. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
But Julian was not so sure.
“He doesn’t know this enemy, Marcus. He’s fresh from victory; he’ll expect another. But more than that, Gratian is his nephew. He’s younger, has more men, and he’s immensely popular. Valens fears him. He won’t want to deliver this battle to a man he considers a rival.”
Thrasimund nodded. “I see the problem, but will not his chiefs advise him to wait?”
“Some will. But will he listen? That’s why I’m going on ahead. I’m sure he’s already made up his mind, but there will still be a war council. The assembly point is Hadrianopolis. I need to be there.
“And I need you, Marcus, to keep the Legion moving. You cannot let the goblins get ahead of us. Don’t let anything slow you down. Not anything.”
“I understand, General.”
“If I succeed, we will have time to stand down and recover. But if Valens won’t listen, the XII must be in the battle.”
Julian stood and clasped Marcus by the shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Marcus Salvius. I put my Legion into your hands.”
Marcus regarded Julian for a long moment.
“Lucius Julianus, when you first came to the XII, I thought you were an arrogant fool.”
“I was!”
“But I have watched you become one of the finest commanders I have known.” The name of Julian’s father hung unspoken in the air between them. “I will not lose your Legion, General.”
“I know you won’t, First.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the Vermilion Tent
Outside the city of Hadrianopolis, the castra of Emperor Valens was so large it made a city in itself. Six legions camped there, surrounded by breastworks and palisades. Gates stood on each of the four sides, each flanked by watch towers. The Tunca River flowed beneath a wooden arch into the camp, where it split into a network of little canals before being gathered again and fed through another arch into its original bed.
Standards were planted everywhere so that the men moved through a forest in whose branches stood wolves, boars, lions, and eagles, festooned with gold and silver emblems. Pennants of every color hung limp in the still air, ready to unfurl at the first charge.
Twenty-six thousand soldiers labored and slept, ate and gambled inside the walls of Valens’ castra. Outside its walls clustered merchants and thieves, hirelings and servants, many from Hadrianopolis but many from villages and distant towns, all eager to make coin feeding at the imperial trough.
Through this city of tents, Julian walked quickly in long strides without slowing, followed closely by Avitus. The slave knew this swift pace, and he worried.
“Do you really think Valens will want to see you?” he asked. He was half-trotting to keep up.
“Of course!” Julian replied. His eyes were bright with determination. “I bring him his warriors.”
“Not fifty thousand.”
“I
can hardly be blamed for that, Avi. They were slaughtered before I ever got to them.”
Avitus refrained from pointing out that Julian had also been weeks late to his assignment.
“But the ones I bring are veterans,” Julian continued, dodging a donkey cart barely under the control of its young driver. “They have actually fought goblins—no small thing, that. Plus, I have brought magicians. Magicians, Avi! Who knows what they can do?”
We certainly don’t, Avitus thought, not even from one minute to the next. But he did not say this.
“Moreover, I bring a full legion, Romans who have fought the monsters. And I bring tactics. New tactics for a new enemy. I tell you, what I bring is exactly what the Emperor wants. And needs!”
Objections rose like bubbles. Avitus let each one pop, unvoiced. When Julian was like this, confident and eager, he was at his most persuasive. His master could charm gold from a miser and virtue from a matron. This time, he would need to charm a pardon from the Emperor.
They passed without challenge through the front gate of the castra, for that gate was intended only to keep out the civilians. At the imperial principium, though, they encountered a second wall, this one of simple canvas stretched between poles encircling the imperial pavilion. The guards there argued with Julian, until he identified himself as the commander of the XII. Then they stood aside.
“Did you see that look?” Avitus asked when they had passed through. “Like we have some kind of disease.”
“Or like condemned men,” Julian said, his tone light. “Never mind. Valens will receive me.”
Avitus could not help responding. “Receive, yes, but will he let you go again?”
The imperial tent was larger than anything he had seen. The Metelli sometimes erected canopies with such a span, but those only provided shade for a summer outing. This was a veritable domicile, complete with windows.