by Ellis Knox
“It is some of the truth.”
“It’s enough of it,” Julian said. “Peace, Avi. I am weary.” Julian’s shoulders sagged and he let out a ragged sigh. “I failed, Avi. Again. Valens wouldn’t listen.”
“That was not your fault. The Emperor is more worried about Gratian than about goblins,” Avitus said. “Few fears run so deep as that of an old man of a young rival.”
“Vere,” Julian said. “All I can do now is use the XII and its auxiliaries as best I can. I’m not going to tell them we are supposed to watch the fight from the seats when we need to be in the arena.”
Avitus glared at his master.
“I did not lie.” Julian’s chin jutted out.
“Then the word itself has no meaning.”
“It was,” Julian hesitated, “a necessary fiction.”
“If it pleases the master to call it that.” Avitus said with exaggerated subservience. “Whatever its name, they deserve better.”
“Men deserve many things they do not get,” Julian said. He sighed again. “Gods but I’m hungry. You’d think I’d be too weary to eat, but my belly has been complaining for hours.”
Avitus produced bread and a jug.
Julian downed a quarter loaf and drained two cups before he would speak again. Avitus waited him out, still standing, arms folded.
“Come now, little bird, don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You do a splendid imitation. Perhaps I’ll sell you to Roman actors after all.”
“Nothing has changed.”
“You are right. Nothing has.”
Avitus remained stubborn. Julian drained his cup, then threw it. Avitus dodged it easily.
“By all the gods and all their cousins, you really shall make me angry! This is a madman’s plan, I admit it. Will it be any better if my men know it’s mad? Will they gain courage to know the odds? Will they fight harder if they know the pincer has but one arm?
“Damn you, Avi, this is no time to judge. We take this plan not because it is the best, or even a good plan.”
He looked away and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“It is the only plan.”
The arms stayed folded.
“You would want to know,” Avitus said. “Men deserve to be felled by a sword, not by a lie.”
The cup being already on the floor, Julian threw the bread, which bounced off Avitus’ shoulder.
“A curse on your piety,” he snarled, then stormed into his private chamber.
Avitus silently and carefully put away the food and the table, then laid out Julian’s armor. That done, he lay down on his mat, placed his arms over his chest, and stared into the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Not Enough Goblins
Quintus Murena hurried back to his place in the lines: the First Cohort of the XV Legion, right at the center of Valens’ army. He had an open, round face, sparkling light brown eyes, and a wrestler’s quickness. He had proven himself in the Eastern campaign and now marched in the second rank, behind the most experienced men. He was just coming back from relieving himself. It still embarrassed him that he had to empty his bowels before every battle.
His cohort, like the rest of the XV, had arrived at the battle site hot, tired, and ready for lunch. The army had left Hadrianopolis late. There had been a mix-up with the quartermasters, who were sure a morning meal was to be served. They brought in all the designated merchants and cooks from town. The tribunes descended and chased them all off, but by the time everyone was done getting out of everyone’s way, the sun was over an hour above the horizon. Emperor Valens had left at sunrise, forcing the legions to catch up. Even so, it was midday before they got their first look at the enemy, and the sun was reaching a broiling heat.
“First says stand to, and await orders,” said Theophractus, as Quintus got into position. The small, dark man had been at Quintus’ left for three campaigns in Persia, and another in Germania before that.
“No food?” Quintus asked.
“Nope,” Theophractus replied, “seems we gotta beat them ones out there to earn a meal.” He gestured.
Quintus looked at ‘them ones out there’. It was a hellish sight. The goblins looked like a vast flock of blackbirds in constant motion, stirring the dry earth, sending dust into the still air where it hung in a brown cloud that dulled the sky. His stomach rolled threateningly.
“Cac, but there’s a lot of ‘em,” Theophractus said.
“Good,” Berian rumbled from in front. “Means there’ll be some left over for you kids, once I’ve done with them.”
“Yah, I heard you can’t lift your sword but twice a day,” Theophractus said.
“The bigger the sword, the more work it is,” Berian replied. There was no anger in either man’s tone. They were just passing the time.
Quintus let the banter go on without him. He was studying the enemy—monsters, the men called them, but the official word was to be ‘enemy’. Whatever they were called, Theophractus was right. There was indeed a lot of them. He tried to think why Valens delayed. What was the Emperor planning? Maybe some sort of flanking maneuver. He looked left and right, assessing the ground, though there was little enough to assess.
The army stood in the middle of a wide, treeless valley. To the left was the IV and the IX, then a low ridge. He could see formations on its slopes. That would be the XXIII, he told himself. And, looking right beyond the XIV and the III, is the XII. By now, every soldier in the whole army had heard about the confrontation between the two Generals Metellus and Lupicinus. Quintus grimaced. Gods protect him from ever becoming a General!
He looked down at his shield and helmet, lying on the ground at his feet. At the signal, he could have both on in less than a minute. That would come soon, he hoped, for the heat of the day built relentlessly. The ground was torn up by thousands of feet until it had turned into a fine powder. A stream had run through the wide valley in spring, but here in high summer it lay empty, all gray stones and hardpan. Little puffs of dust rose about the men’s feet whenever they moved, falling straight back down again in the stillness.
Behind the lines, he could just see a splash of color on a low hill. There stood the standards of the Divine Valens, white and crimson and green, spears and helmets glinting like tiny suns. Runners and horsemen came and went constantly.
Time crawled under the yellow sun.
“We don’t do something soon,” Theophractus said, “I’m going to blow one of those damned bugles myself.”
At least the goblins should charge, Quintus thought. It wasn’t natural, this standing around. Maybe that was how those creatures did the business, but it was not at all like old Bandy-Legs. What was he waiting for?
Gnaeus Lupicinus, commanding the XXIII Legion, paced back and forth in the shade of the only tree in sight. The sun glared through the thick haze onto the low hills, the brown grass, and the XXIII Legion. Its standard hung limp in the heavy air. The General wiped sweat from his neck and frowned. He took his helmet off because his brain was baking, then put it on again because he wanted to look ready for battle. He strained his ears, listening for trumpets, a war chant, horses. Anything at all beyond the creak of leather as his men shifted miserably in the heat.
The ridge was bare save for some scrub oak and a scattering of red poppies. Away to the east a low dust cloud hung over all, obscuring his view of the rest of the army. Somewhere in front were the goblins. A Horde, they were called. He had listened to the arguments over whether they were man or beast, but he did not care. For him, they were opportunity—an opportunity he was close to losing. The heat made him itch, but it was the frustration made the itching unbearable.
His Legion was up here rather than down there, and it was all the fault of Lucius Julianus. That privileged brat had deliberately provoked him in front of the Emperor last night, causing Valens to relegate him to the periphery. Lupicinus seethed at the injustice, which only made him hotter, which on
ly made him angrier. Metellus had failed with his mission in Dacia, had fled before the enemy, allowed the enemy to cross the Ister, and defied direct orders from a provincial governor. Valens would have executed any other man, but this man was named Metellus, so all he received was a reprimand and a posting on the flank.
“The same as I!” he muttered. A soldier glanced warily in his commander’s direction, then relaxed when it did not look like Lupicinus was speaking to him.
Lupicinus took his helmet off again and scratched at his neck; this heat made his skin crawl. To deploy the XXIII on the same footing as the XII could only be an insult. It was all Valens’ fault, really. He scratched at his neck again. He was sure must be the heat.
“Send a message!”
Several aides and centurions came to attention, unsure who he meant.
“To the Divine Valens, Commander of the Army of the East.”
That was not its name, but Lupicinus liked the sound of it. Three aides were now scrambling for tablet and stylus, while a fourth tried to memorize the message where he stood.
“Request permission to move bulk of XXIII to valley floor, thus closing a dangerous gap between self and the IV.”
He was sure Valens was unaware of the gap, a military blunder. Or was it a deliberate insult? Was the IV in fact the true left flank, and the XXIII irrelevant? Expendable? He scratched furiously at the back of his left hand, inspecting it for signs of mites.
“Will keep cavalry on ridge as lookouts. Signed, Gn. Lupicinus, commanding et cetera.”
He turned on his aides. One was still writing.
“Go!” he shouted, then stalked into his tent.
The aides looked at one another a moment, then all four left at a run.
Lupicinus came back outside. He had thought of something else. He did not need permission for every tiny decision. He was a General!
“Tribune, why is my legion's ass sitting on a mountain top?”
The tribune looked all around for anyone else at all before saying, “Excuse me, sir?”
“Did I fail to speak your native language, soldier?”
“Er, no sir.”
Lupicinus sighed deeply. “I was inquiring why the XXIII should be so far removed from the fighting.”
The man hesitated. Surely anything he might say would only get him into deeper water. He tread carefully. “I understood, sir, that our orders require it. Sir.”
“No, tribune, you did not understand.” Lupicinus briefly wondered what the man's name was. “You mis-understood. Would you understand that the Divine Valens wishes the XXIII to hold the left flank of empty space? Naturally not. You are far too good an officer to suppose that. Therefore, your juniors have blundered, obviously. Please go correct them and adjust our disposition.”
The tribune—whose name was Helvetius though no one knew why, since he was Illyrian—weighed his options carefully, as any panicked soldier does when given ambiguous instructions. He could risk the General’s wrath by asking where to place the men, or he could leave and try to guess. The original orders were plain enough: the XXIII was to occupy and hold the western ridge. This likely meant the XXIII would see little or no action today which was fine with the Illyrian named Helvetius.
“Right away sir,” he said, telling himself, when given an order, go do it, or at least go. Do your thinking when safely away from the General. As he left, Lupicinus called after him, “You will keep cavalry on the ridge, of course. We don't want the entire legion down here in the valley, eh?”
“No sir!” Helvetius said with genuine enthusiasm. This side of the ridge, then! Thank the gods for that statement. The tribune hurried on his way, content that whatever madness might occur, he himself had followed orders.
Lupicinus decided he would not have been so hard on him, if it had not been so abominably hot. Was Persia this hot? Something moved like a beetle down one cheek. He slapped at it, but it was only sweat.
Perhaps we could put the standard on top of the ridge, he thought. If Emperor Potbelly should look in our direction he'll see the standard right where he expects it. He nodded with satisfaction and sent a runner after the centurion with the additional instructions.
“Guard!” he called out, “ready my horse. I shall inspect our right flank and perhaps have a look at the IV.”
There had better not be too much of a gap, he thought. Maybe I could shift a few troops over, if the gap is too large.
He scratched at his forearm and cursed the heat.
The XII stood and sweated right along with the other legions, its soldiers longing for food and shade, hoping that eventually battle might deliver both.
Julian was still putting on his armor. He was rummaging through a chest, throwing things onto the ground. Neither he nor his slave were in the best of moods.
“Avi, where are my damned boots?”
“They’d be on your damned feet if you took a moment to look for them,” Avitus snarled without looking up.
Julian stopped unloading the chest. “This is no time to be peevish, Avi. What’s wrong with you?”
“You mean besides getting ready to die?” Avitus still pretended to be busy.
“Yes, besides that.”
Avitus stood and turned around.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, master. You are.” He took a ragged breath and blinked hard. “I’m supposed to be watching you, but you keep going out into the most …” He groped for a word, “… impossible situations.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what my words say! You’ve explained to me that the army is outnumbered and badly led. You and I already know what we face. It’s … impossible!”
“Yet, here we are,” Julian said.
“Yes, here we are,” Avitus said.
“I would gladly be somewhere else, but the goblins do seem to keep following me. You know I never wished you to be involved in a war.”
“I know that! Don’t you think I know that? But it doesn’t make things any easier, does it? I was supposed to protect you, keep you safe, but now ….” He trailed off.
Julian, alarmed by the display, tried to make light of the words.
“Come, Avitus. You protect me? We’ve been in enough scrapes for you to know I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” Avitus’ voice rose in volume and pitch. Julian took a half step back.
“What … of course I can. The brawls at the White Dog, getting jumped last winter by those thugs. And don’t forget my brilliant escape from Plotinus’ house. I swear I don’t understand you.” He was trying not to get angry, but he was also trying to get dressed.
Avitus rubbed at his eyes in a fury. His face turned a deep crimson. “Plotinus? I could tell you a thing or two about that one. As for the scrape in that alley, …”
At that moment, shouts sounded outside. The two men stood across from each other. Julian spoke first.
“Avitus,” he said, “my friend….”
“Oh no! Not friend! You don’t get to do that now. You are the General, and this is your legion. You are no one’s friend today….” His voice caught. “Don’t you understand, Julian? You have to be General Metellus now. Only that.”
Julian stared silently. He could almost see the wall going up between them. He had done or said something wrong, but there was no time left to figure it out. His eyes hardened.
“Right.” He picked up his helmet. “Right as ever, little bird.”
Avitus’ mouth tightened. Then he bowed his head slightly.
“Yes, master,” he said. “I’ll do my part, as I’ve sworn to do.”
Julian turned away. Avitus’ outburst had come on top of the fight with Lupicinus, the failure to get Valens to listen to him, and the perpetual worry over the squabbles among the barbarians. Deep anger threatened to boil up within, but he pushed it back down again. Avitus for later. Lupicinus for later. Inglena for later. He longed for action, just to quell the turmoil. He strode out into the heat and dust.
; The XII itself was arrayed in Julian’s formation—lines separated by wide spaces, with the rixen flanked to the right with the Thervings beyond, and Ennius’ cavalry to the rear. It was a formation that would have met with the disapproval of any Roman commander. In his mind, Julian pictured the officers of the III looking over and wondering what in the world General Metellus was up to. He did not care. The formation would work, as all the other poor buggers were about to learn.
Last of all, he looked up. The air itself seemed to burn in a pale sky discolored by yellow dust. The haze was so thick, the sun shone orange. Though there was no breeze, the haze was spreading. He could feel it in his eyes and nose.
Valens, Julian thought, had better do something soon, or the entire army would cook in its own armor.
Nearby stood a granite boulder that served as the only point of observation. It was about ten feet high, broad enough to hold two men. He motioned one of the men down and scrambled up himself. The stone was warm to the touch.
The other man on the rock was a Pergamene who claimed his family was descended from Cyrus of Lydia. Julian hoped Ithialtes, who was a talker, would have sense enough to stay quiet.
He could see no sign of an attack. The goblins milled about in the nest that passed for their camp, as they had since dawn. All the morning packs had burst out of that crowd and charged at the Romans, racing away again just out of bow shot. Some came too close and arrows found marks, and the monsters had simply left the fallen where they lay, dead and injured alike.
This was familiar to Julian; he had seen it before. He even understood the caution by Valens. If the enemy gives you anything, including time, you take it. Something about the scene bothered him, though, something unrelated to the delay. He had felt it when he did his first survey soon after sunrise, and it had tugged at him ever since. He couldn't pin it down long enough to identify it, so it simmered at the back of his mind. It was one of the reasons why he had climbed up for another look.
The imperial lines were wrong—he already knew that. The legions were arranged in a standard echelon formation often used against superior numbers. It was very likely used by Valens in his Persian campaigns. But these were not Persians.