Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Windows!

  “It’s grand,” Julian said, “but it’s not Valens’ tent. Somewhere nearby you will find an ordinary tent where the Divinity sleeps on the ground like any soldier.”

  “Vere?”

  “Truth. Valens was never a court emperor. He’s a campaigner, and likes to remind himself of the fact.”

  Avitus contemplated this, then said, “If I were Emperor, I would sleep on a bed stuffed with feathers.”

  “No doubt you also would never go to war.”

  “Of course not! War should be fled from, not gone to.”

  “This is not the place for your Scythian philosophy,” Julian said. “Let us see who we have at this party.”

  They stepped forward almost together, Avitus remembering at the last moment to let his master precede him.

  Inside the grand tent was a crowd—Avitus scanned the room and counted at least twenty. Some were clearly generals, to judge by the fine medallions down their chests, while even the less grand were still obviously men of rank. Despite the large number of men, the tent had space for half again as many. All were bathed in a reddish light that filtered through the vermilion walls of the pavilion. Despite the open windows and doorways, the air was hot, thick with the smell of leather and sweat.

  “Mark the men Avitus,” Julian said, “I’ll want your opinions, afterward.”

  Avitus nodded.

  “You see that fat man over there? The one who looks like a merchant stuffed into a uniform? That’s Equitius, some sort of distant imperial cousin. Actually used to be a merchant. Tykonos says the man skims shamelessly, but he keeps the army fed. He’ll follow Valens in all things. I don’t know who the others are. Can’t see them all from here.”

  Equitius was standing among a small group of men, six or seven, near the back side of the pavilion. A second, smaller group, stood nearer. Julian nodded toward them.

  “I know one there as well. The big fellow, youngest in the group. That’s Potentius. His father was Ursicinus, who fought alongside my father. He’s a sensible sort.”

  “Who’s he talking to?” asked Avitus.

  “Don’t know, but that one fellow’s obviously a German, and the curly-headed one with the blue cape? Could be Victor. I’ve heard of him; never met him.”

  “That one in the red sash is notable,” Avitus said.

  A squat, bulky man stood next to Potentius, the two speaking in wide gestures that forced the others to step back. The big man wore a wide sash around his ample belly, dyed a brilliant red.

  “Most of the men here are the Emperor’s veterans,” Julian said. “I’m guessing the others are from Gratian.”

  The men spoke easily with one another, recalling past exploits and talking eagerly of their return to Constantinople.

  “They are too confident,” Avitus said to Julian.

  “They’ve had three years of victory. They have brought the Persian to heel. They have reason to be confident.”

  “And they have no idea what they are going to face.”

  “Lucius Julianus,” a sharp voice said, cutting through the low chatter. “There you are. I was told you were in attendance.”

  Avitus felt Julian go tense.

  “Gnaeus Lupicinus, greetings and health to you.”

  Avitus turned after a decent delay to see the commander of the XXIII come forward and clasp Julian’s hand.

  Lupicinus’ uniform was spotless. Its metal glinted, its leather gleamed. He was flanked by two officers whose medals were tastefully fewer and smaller. One officer bore the General’s baton, the other his helmet. It was altogether brash and showy, just as Avitus remembered him.

  “But where is your staff?” Lupicinus said. His voice could be heard across the tent.

  Julian indicated Avitus with a tilt of his head.

  Lupicinus whinnied a laugh. “A slave? You bring a Greek slave into the imperial tent?”

  “Scythian,” Avitus muttered, his face lowered so Lupicinus could not see.

  Lupicinus feigned sympathetic understanding.

  “Oh, but you have suffered such heavy losses in your long retreat. I quite understand. Such a shame.”

  “One suffers losses when one actually fights,” Julian said. Avitus marveled that his master spoke so evenly.

  Further exchange was cut short by the arrival of the Emperor.

  There was a stir, the volume of voices dropped, and all eyes turned to the far end of the tent. Two soldiers stepped through and pulled aside the flaps. Through the opening stepped a short, dark man, bow-legged, with a round belly that stuck out as if he had swallowed a kettle. The figure would have been laughable except for one thing: he wore a cloak dyed with Tyrian purple. His face was stern, with lines of worry and anger rather than age or mirth. His skin was dark, though whether naturally or from the Eastern sun, Avitus could not tell. Add to that the cast in his left eye, and the Divine Valens looked like some character out of a Roman comedy.

  By his side was a younger, taller man with a narrow face and big ears.

  “Caesar Decius,” Julian whispered. “I didn’t know Valens had brought his son.”

  The Emperor crossed to the table in the middle of the room.

  “Colleagues,” he said, “let us begin.” At least his voice was not comical; it held the brusque note of command.

  The men now sorted themselves out. A dozen arrayed themselves around the long table, while the rest stood two or three paces behind, attentive. When Julian stepped to the table as well, Avitus took his place appropriately. He glanced to his left, then right, to assess his peers. All wore military dress and not one was a slave. He drew himself up and looked only to Julian.

  “Our scouts report the enemy is assembled nine miles from this spot,” Valens said, pointing to the ground as if he had measured the distance himself. “They outnumber us, but only by a little. Fifty thousand. Given their nature, I’d say the odds are in our favor. What say you, Victor?”

  “We stand ready, lord.”

  “Lord, how did so many get across the Ister and past our river legions?” exclaimed Equitius. His round, fat face was streaked with sweat.

  “That is unknown,” said a red-headed man in the uniform of a cavalry officer.

  “I heard they came over on flying trees,” said Sebastianus. Others laughed but Valens did not.

  “Or they swam,” said Victor.

  “No, they cannot swim,” Sebastianus replied.

  Avitus shot a quick glance at Julian, but his master kept his lips tight.

  “Toss one in yourself, did you?”

  “I might tie one on to you, Victor, just to see.”

  More laughter. The foolish banter appalled Avitus. Why weren’t they more serious?

  “My reports say the barbarians aided them.”

  This came from Lupicinus. The comment turned heads.

  “The Thervingi?” said the man in the red sash

  “Who can say, Bakur?”

  “It is possible. I have heard the same rumor.” Caesar Decius spoke for the first time, bringing the banter to a quick stop.

  “How they crossed isn’t important. They’re here now.” This, from Equitius.

  “They are indeed,” said Lupicinus. “I mention this only because it calls into doubt the loyalty of the Metellus barbarians.”

  All heads turned to Julian.

  “You did not know,” Lupicinus asked, innocently. “The most noble Lucius Julianus has taken the whole horde of them as his clients.”

  “Gnaeus Lupicinus knows why I did this. It was to keep him from packing them all off to be sold into slavery.”

  “At the governor’s request!”

  “To your mutual profit!”

  The German broke in. “Augustus Valens, may I speak?”

  Valens waved a hand. “General Ricimer.” Valens did not sound pleased. “Say what you have to say.”

  “I represent Gratian, Augustus of the West. He begs you to wait. In collegial fidelity he promises sixteen legions. He
is nearly done with the Alemanni; indeed, he likely has already put to flame their meager cities and is even now marching to the Iron Gates.”

  An angry murmur ran around the table.

  “Not that he would go further!” Ricimer said quickly. “He would never cross the border between West and East without your permission.”

  “Out of collegial fidelity,” Valens said.

  “Out of respect for the law,” Ricimer said.

  “Does my esteemed co-emperor,” Valens sneered the words, “think I need help with this rabble?”

  The man started to protest, but Valens cut him off.

  “No he does not. He knows his barbarian rabble, better than most. He’s spent his career, brief as it is, trudging through swamps to frighten off painted savages. And what have I done?”

  Valens’ voice rose in pitch. He looked upward and raised his hands.

  “I call on Mars as witness. I have brought low the Persians, whom Gordion could not defeat. Valerian could not defeat. I did this.

  “I have, moreover, defeated the Dacians, the same people who now flee the invader. These are my veterans,” his hand swept expansively, “covered in laurels.

  “Gratian does not want to help; he wants to pilfer. He is a boy, longing to be a man, so he follows his uncle to the whorehouse.

  “I tell you, he will not have this delicacy. It is mine alone. I’ll give my boys a fourth triumph. I swear it. These invaders send farmers and goat herders scurrying. It’s time they met Roman arms!”

  Loud cheers greeted this declamation. Ricimer could only hang his head. Avitus looked uneasily at Julian. He seemed to be waiting calmly, but Avitus knew his master well. He saw the clenched fist and the twitch in the jaw. Julian was not calm; he was contained.

  As the cheers died away, somewhat forced, Avitus thought, Julian’s voice broke in. His words were measured, but around his eyes were tiny, tight lines, and he stared hard at the Emperor.

  “Lord Valens,” he said, “since your strategy is for war, may I advise on tactics?”

  This brought instant silence into the room. No one quite gasped, but eyes were nearly as wide as mouths. Except for Lupicinus’. His face wore a narrow grin.

  “Speak, General Metellus iunior.”

  Avitus quailed inside. Bad enough that Julian had had no chance to present his case. He was now forced to open with his final card. And Valens had to jab at him with a needless insult.

  “I am the younger, it is true,” Julian said. He could not ignore the jab. “And for the sake of my father’s service with you, I ask a fair hearing.”

  That graceful reply set Valens back. He appeared to reconsider whatever he had been going to say and answered with a command to speak.

  “You said the invaders—they are called goblins, sire—have chased out only local folk, but this is incorrect. They have met with Roman arms before.”

  “And vanquished them,” Lupicinus blurted. Valens scowled him quiet.

  “Not so. I have fought them and I have beaten them. My auxiliaries have a long history of war with the goblins. We know of tactics that can succeed.”

  “I know a few tactics myself, Lucius Julianus.”

  “They won’t work, sire.”

  This time there were audible gasps. Those standing closest to Julian began to edge away, discreetly but perceptibly.

  “We have had a certain success in the past,” Valens observed.

  “Not with goblins. Our traditional tactics were developed to fight men, but these are not men.”

  “So I have heard. I have even seen a corpse.”

  This brought surprised whispering.

  “One of my scouts brought it just this morning. Badly decomposed, but gruesome enough even so. Gentlemen, what the younger Metellus says is true. These invaders are not men. They have snouts for faces, and claws for hands.” He peered around the room. “They have tails.”

  The whispering grew louder.

  “Are we to fight animals then? That’s no sort of job for an army,” Potentius said.

  “Silence. We’re not on a hunting expedition. These things, these … ghobellensi … have burned our cities and killed our citizens. They are here and we must destroy them. We can let the philosophers sort out the rest afterward.”

  The few chuckles sounded reassured. They were back on familiar ground. There would be a battle. Valens would lead them. The rest was details.

  “If we attack in a frontal assault, we will suffer heavy losses.”

  Julian spoke again, his voice determined, but was that a note of pleading?

  “There is another way.”

  “Speak,” Valens said but he was plainly losing patience.

  “A pincer movement. Draw the enemy into our center, then strike from both flanks. This enemy is not an army. It cannot be broken as an army can.”

  Snorts of skepticism.

  “But it can be scattered, if we kill the Gniva.”

  “Gniva?” Valens stumbled on the word.

  “Their leader.”

  “You say a pincer. Shall I take the left or the right?”

  Julian ignored the sarcasm. “Neither. You and your best must take the center. Put the XII on the left and the Thervingi on the right.”

  “Oh, but this is absurd,” Lupicinus said. He waved his arm as if dismissing a bad singer at a banquet.

  “The XII has experience.”

  “And these barbarians? I’ve heard the stories, that they are in secret league with the invaders.” Lupicinus would not give it up.

  “Wherever they go, the ghobellensi follow!” Caesar Decius said.

  “No, no, just the opposite, Commander. The rixen have pursued the goblins and fight them constantly.” Julian started to explain, but Lupicinus interrupted.

  “What a comedy this is, with your ghobellensi and rixeni and Gnivas,” he said, drawling the final syllable. “What ridiculous words your barbarians have.

  “Do you know, o lord Emperor, that they have sorcerers? Yes! The Thervingi exile such foulness when they find it, as is only proper, but this commander of the Fleeing Legion would harbor them. He protects them from legal prosecution.”

  Julian’s whole head twitched. His fists balled tight. Avitus held his breath.

  “I think,” Julian said, his voice tight as reins, “I shall give you another flying lesson.”

  “You threaten me?” Lupicinus looked around the room, his eyes wild with triumph. “You all heard him!?

  “Lupicinus…”

  “But this is to be expected, from one who himself has fled the City to escape prosecution from arson!”

  Julianus uttered a feral snarl. His hand went to his sword, but Avitus quickly grabbed his arm.

  “Enough!”

  Valens’ command came out in a battlefield roar.

  “Enough of this. You quarrel like women in the market. Lucius Julianus, you do not honor your father’s memory. You behave like a child and I’d be a fool to take advice from a child. The XII will be held in reserve.”

  Julian started to speak.

  “That’s an end! Not another word or I’ll turn you out.”

  Avitus caught the look of triumph on the face of Lupicinus and had to turn away. He clamped shut his mouth and clenched his fists. He wanted to weep for his Master’s humiliation, and even more for the death he now believed awaited them all, every man in the vermilion tent. The war council turned to tactics, leaving Julian to fume in silence.

  Julian and Avitus arrived at the Legion well after dark, guided by the glow of campfires on the hillside near the forest. He was expected, and all his Tribunes were waiting at the principium.

  “Now then,” Julian began. He affected a light tone, calling them ‘noble sirs’ and ‘my esteemed colleagues’ as if they were in the Senate. They chuckled, dutifully, but Avitus could tell they were nervous. Julian joked ironically—a technique he was in the habit of using when he wished to cover up some unpleasantness.

  He told them a lively version of his me
eting with the Emperor, a version accurate in many small details. He spoke of the brilliance of the setting, the nobility of the officers, the fine food. Soldiers never tire of descriptions of food. He related the Emperor’s determination to attack the next day.

  “I did my best to dissuade him, you may be assured of that. But Emperor Pot-Belly is looking for a fight and won’t be denied. You understand.”

  They all pretended they did.

  “So I offered my other plan to him.”

  “The pincer attack?” asked Marcus.

  “The very same. We’ll be on the right.”

  A murmur of approval. The boys were as eager as the Emperor for a battle.

  There followed a long conversation regarding tactics.

  Inglena and Thrasimund both attended, and the particulars were reviewed once more. Julian told them it was a long chance. Much depended on how well Valens’ forces could stand against a new enemy. Still more depended on being able to cut a path to the Gniva. A score of concerns were raised and a dozen adjustments made, until at last all were satisfied—if not with the plan itself, at least that there was no more to be said about it.

  Julian dismissed his war council and went into his tent. Avitus followed him in. He waited, head cocked, eyebrow raised, as Julian removed his own boots. After a couple of minutes, Julian cocked his head in imitation.

  “Avi, I hope you don’t plan on holding that ridiculous pose all night.”

  Avitus snorted.

  “I told no falsehood.”

  “You deceived them.”

  “I did what I needed to do.”

  “Did you? Or are you simply avoiding a terrible truth? These men have followed you from battle to battle. They believe you. They believe in you. Why do you not believe in them?”

  “Oh, mercy. Save your histrionics. You’ll need them, as I believe I shall sell you to actors.”

  “You can’t sell me, you freed me.”

  “Egyptian actors.”

  “There’s no call for insults, and anyway you are trying to change the subject. How can you lie to those men? To Marcus?”

  “I told them we have the right flank.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It’s the truth.”