by Ellis Knox
His heart leaped into frantic pounding. He stretched his fingers as he tried to find his sword without actually moving. The slight effort brought all his pains forward as if they were actors stepping out on a stage. He clamped his lips tight to keep from crying out.
The creature turned and moved away after a moment, dragging one leg, blood oozing from the thigh.
Good, Julian thought. Bleed and die.
Words were at his ear, soft as a shroud. He started, which brought pain from every direction. He turned his head slowly until he could see Avitus next to him.
His slave held one finger to his lips.
“No sound. Do not move. We are safe.”
Safe? Julian thought. A hysterical laugh nearly escaped, but fear and pain kept it in his throat.
The terrible crimson of the afternoon was deepening toward violet off to his right. To his left, past Avitus, the weak light was turning black.
Some goblins were already motionless, but others still moved about. They appeared languid. Sated. One stopped to feed on a corpse. Rage flared in his chest. He started to move, but Avitus gripped his arm and a sudden weakness washed through him. He sank back, muscles releasing. He realized he was propped up, leaning against something.
His horse.
His heart clenched.
Then the smells struck him—a fetid heaviness on the air that made him want to wretch. Smells of rotted meat, blood, shit, the musty scent of horse, and over all a smell like burning metal. Hades must surely smell better, he thought. He was going to think something else, but either it got dark or he closed his eyes and stopped thinking.
The sun set in a cloud of red dust, behind the line of hills where Lupicinus had died a few hours earlier. The sky was a deep crimson, edged with purple, as if heaven itself had been bruised this day. No moon rose and the dust obliterated the stars, and the whole world became as black as a cavern, except away to the west a gout of red or green flame sometimes shone forth, like torches in hell.
“Time to move,” Avitus voice whispered, “but be quiet.”
The voice woke him. Avitus spoke in a tone of command. It was the same tone he used when guiding Julian back from a night of drink and debauch, getting him firmly back home. But it seemed absurd now, for now Julian was in command of a legion.
The Legion!
Full awareness now crashed upon him. The attack had failed. Ennius was dead. The battle was lost. Was the Legion itself also lost?
He opened his eyes, then blinked because it was still dark. All around him was silence—no groans of the dying, no thud or clack of monsters, no swirl and flutter of crows or vultures. He could see no stars in the sky; only the moon, hanging like a bloody sickle.
He felt Avitus’ face near his own.
“Master, it is time to leave. Two things: make no sound, and do not let go of me.”
The first made good sense, surrounded as they were by monsters, but the second made none at all. Avitus’ fingers dug into his flesh, so he nodded in agreement if not in understanding.
“Up now.”
Julian hauled himself to his feet. His arm ached, his legs ached, and something like a line of fire ran across his back. He thought he might be wounded. As he rose, he put a hand on the horse for support. He lingered a moment, reluctant to leave the horse, knowing what was in store for the animal.
He must have broken contact with Avitus, for he suddenly felt the Scythian grab his arm.
“Never let go!”
The words hissed in his face, angry as a snake.
“What…” Julian began, but Avitus did not let him finish.
“Ssh. Stop. Wait.” His words were suddenly unsteady. Alarmed, Julian took Avitus’ hand in his own.
“Avi…”
“Wait.”
Julian waited. He heard rustling noises, as if the goblins were turning over in their sleep. After a long minute, he felt the grip on his arm ease. Avitus’ ragged breathing grew more even. The goblins quieted.
Something had just happened, Julian knew, though he had no idea what it was. Something important. Something he would ask about, later, when his head cleared.
Avitus led Julian past goblins and corpses. Twice goblins walked right by them, taking no notice. Julian half expected to see the ghostly form of some god shielding them from sight. Or, he thought, we are dead and Avitus is leading me to Hades.
The ground gradually rose under their feet as they walked. They worked their way easterly and south, if he was judging correctly. The vast dust cloud raised by the battle still hung; the stars remained hidden. The crescent moon inched its way through the blackness, blood red. It was like walking in a cavern.
Somewhere, was the Therving camp. Miles away maybe, but it was definitely up hill.
Sometime in the second hour, they came to a wall—not of stone but of branches. It loomed darker than darkness, smelled of pine, and stretched away beyond the few feet they could see. The only goblins near were all dead.
“What is this? Where are we?” Julian asked.
At his words, Avitus let go his grip and slumped to the ground.
“I can’t go any further,” he said, his voice weak. Julian, alarmed by the sudden release after so long, crouched beside him. The man was trembling.
“Avi, it’s all right. We can stay here.”
Avitus did not reply. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running.
Julian sat beside him, cradling him, one arm around his shoulders, ignoring his own pain. He stared into the darkness. A forest stood before him, but it was an impossibility. He knew, roughly, where they were—on the low hills that ran southward. These hills held farmsteads, not forests. Yet there stood the trees.
Ridiculous, unbelievable trees. Slender pine trees, their branches growing together so thickly a bat could not weave between them. The smell of pine was so strong it masked even the stench of the battlefield. No such forest grew anywhere in Thrace, he was sure of it.
Avitus was falling asleep. Julian could feel him relax and slump down. The night air was still warm from the day’s heat, so there was no need to cover him. Julian lay down beside him. His body throbbed with aches, but a deeper hurt cut into him.
He had lost his Legion. Lost his comrades. Lost the battle. Perhaps he had even lost Rome. The thought of those monsters in the streets of Constantinople, rampaging through homes, tore at him more painfully than any of his wounds.
He pushed the images aside, only to confront the questions that had been lurking. How had he survived? Why had the goblins not seen him? Why had Avitus collapsed even though he seemed to be unhurt? And where had this forest come from? Even as he supposed magic was the answer to every question, it was no sort of answer at all.
He stared up into darkness. He could feel fatigue overtaking him. His mind gradually gave up its writhing and he could do no more than lie on his back, watching the red moon crawl across the blank sky.
Morning dawned as red as the moon.
Julian awoke to see Avitus standing up, looking eastward. Julian got to his own feet with a groan. The pain across his back was a bright fire.
His head was spinning, so it took a moment to realize something was different.
“Where is the forest?” he said. “There was one here last night.”
Avitus nodded.
“A forest ought not do that, pop in and pop out again. It’s not proper.”
“It’s not proper,” Avitus said, “it’s magic.”
“Of course it is. But why? And who did it? Oh!” Understanding struck him. “This forest could stop anything.”
“Even goblins,” Avitus said.
“Even goblins. And the only reason to make such a wall would be if there was someone to save.”
“The Legion.”
“Let us hope so, Avi.” Julian could not bring himself to say their names, but the faces of Marcus and Inglena flashed vividly before him. If the Legion—if they—had survived, then there was something yet to hope for.
He looked around in all directions. To the east, the rising sun was just cresting the mountains, throwing long shadows. To the north and west, devastation. The earth was mottled with bodies, as if the skin of the earth were stricken by a pox. All plants had been trampled and all animals slain. South and east lay Hadrianopolis, the next victim of the Horde. Further to the south stood Constantinople, unaware of her pending fate.
“Avitus,” Julian said, “we need to talk.”
“Yes, master,” Avitus said, “we do, but first let us find the Legion.”
Julian nodded. It made sense. He was heartened that it made sense because it meant he was at least able to think that clearly.
“Do we still need to hold hands?” he asked. He meant it to sound sarcastic but the words came out innocent.
Avitus took a long look in all directions. “No,” he said finally, “I’m not sure where the goblins have gone, but all I see are dead bodies.”
Julian looked in turn and saw the same. “Damn us all,” he said softly, “the Gniva has taken them to Hadrianopolis.”
Avitus shot him a wan look. Julian’s lips tightened.
“The city will not stand against them,” he said.
They both looked to the southwest, searching for signs of anything at all.
“We should go,” Avitus said.
“Yes.”
It took them most of the morning to locate the camp. The way was not difficult. The underbrush was thin and the hills not especially steep. But Julian stumbled repeatedly, and they had to stop to rest multiple times. When they finally reached the rendezvous camp, on the back side of a ridge, Julian sank to his knees.
“Too late,” he said.
There was no mistaking the scene. Tents had been struck. Wagons were abandoned, their contents emptied. All the horses were gone. There was no sign of fighting.
“They left us?” Avitus wondered.
“We took too long.”
“They were supposed to wait.”
“I’m sure they did. But how long should they wait? A month? A week? A day, an hour? We never talked over that point.” Julian shook his head. “Stupid of me.”
“You had other things on your mind.”
“It was part of the battle plan, Avi. It should have been the only thing on my mind.”
“Don’t get angry,” Avitus said, holding up a hand.
“I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with me. I’m angry with those damned creatures.”
Avitus held his hand out. “Let me help you stand,” he said. “We should look for food.”
There wasn’t much, but they managed to locate some hard bread in one place, a partly-full wine sack in another.
“Things dropped or forgotten,” Avitus said. “Thank Fortune for accidents.”
“And thank men for the rest. Look.”
He pointed to a pole that had been planted in the ground. It had a short crossbar, from which was suspended a Roman helmet. Julian went over to it.
“It’s a cohort standard,” he said, “but the banner’s gone. I wonder…” He lifted the helmet off, looked inside, and pulled out a small piece of vellum. He read the writing he found there.
“Constantinople. M. Salvius.”
He looked at Avitus, who was startled to see tears in his master’s eyes.
“He lives, Avi. The Legion lives.” He took a ragged breath and wiped at his face. “There is hope.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Favored by the Gods
They remained at the empty camp that night. Julian wanted to leave immediately. Avitus argued with him, then relented. When Julian could not make it more than a hundred yards without staggering, he agreed to rest and leave in the morning. The two arose with the sun and set out, moving at a steady walk.
They traveled along the western flanks of the hills, moving in and out of stands of chestnut and oak. Avitus worried they might be seen, but the mountains to their left were too rugged to travel concealed among the heavy pine. On the right lay scattered farms and easy paths, with the Via Hadriana in the distance. Lines of dust rose from that direction. Outrunners. So he and Julian kept to the trees, sometimes hurrying across open meadows of grass and hornbeam, trudging under the pale blue sky in which wheeled a few hawks hunting mice. Avitus could not help feeling sympathy with the mice.
The heat of the afternoon sapped both men’s strength, and Julian finally agreed to stop in a stand of cherry trees watered by a little stream. The trees provided heavy green shade. Julian drank watered wine, ate a piece of hard bread, and eagerly devoured a handful of cherries Avitus found. The two spoke little. For his part, Avitus could barely resist simply lying down to sleep. Fatigue pulled at his bones.
He sat leaning against the rough bark of the cherry tree, while Julian sat on a flat rock near the stream. Julian kept staring at him. Avitus waited him out.
“You were not injured, little bird,” Julian said at last.
“Bumps and scrapes,” Avitus said.
“We lost our horses.” Julian’s eyes went unfocused. “I remember that much. You were at my side.” He frowned. “In my way; I remember shaking you off. Then something … no, that’s all.”
Avitus opened his mouth to speak, shook his head, and said nothing.
“Then I woke up. I remember that well enough,” Julian said. “We were surrounded by monsters. How is it you were not hurt?”
“It was because they could not see me,” Avitus said.
“What do you mean? How?”
Avitus took a breath. “Because I made it so. Then I made it so for you as well.”
Julian shifted on the stony ground.
“You remember the night of the battle?” Avitus asked. “After the fighting?”
A shadow passed across Julian’s face. He drew a ragged breath and said, “Yes.”
Avitus gave Julian a moment to grieve yet again for the dead. He was going to press on, but Julian spoke first, his head lowered.
“The goblin looked right at me and did not see me. Did not see us.”
“Yes. Then we walked across the battlefield, past thousands of them.”
“They were sleeping,” Julian said.
“Not all.”
“No.”
“They never saw us. I had my hand on your arm, do you remember? I told you not to let go.”
“I remember.” Julian picked up a pebble and tossed it into the stream. “Avi … invisible?”
Avitus nodded.
“How?”
“I can’t describe it. I have to think about it; it doesn’t just happen.”
“How long?”
“I can manage an hour or two, if I have to. I get tired, after.” He shrugged.
“No, I mean, how long have you been able to do this?”
Avitus did not answer right away. Now he came to it, he realized this was the real reason he had been reluctant to speak.
“I’m not sure. Since last year, maybe longer.”
“You don’t know? Don’t you do something? Say magic words? Wave your arms?”
“It happened … I don’t know. At first, I thought merely that I had hidden. Then, at the White Dog, someone looked right at me—I was experimenting, thinking I’d learned a trick—and I realized he couldn’t see me at all.”
Julian shook his head slightly, his lips tight. “A year,” he said.
The secret was part way out now, and there was no use trying to conceal the rest.
“I told the Lady Helena.”
“Hmph.”
“She’s the one who told me to keep it secret. To use my ability to help keep you safe.”
“Naturally.” Julian did not try to hide a bitter tone.
“That was my job!” Avitus protested. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“I had supposed you were my friend.”
Avitus blanched at that. “I am,” he said, leaning forward, hands extended like a supplicant. “But I also belong to the family.”
“One comes before the o
ther, seemingly.”
Avitus rocked back. His heart was going out of him.
“I am truly sorry.”
Julian smiled, but Avitus knew that smile. An ungenerous smile.
“Plotinus,” Julian said.
“Yes.”
“That’s how we escaped. His men went right past us, at the gates.”
“Yes.” Avitus reeled inside, could manage only the barest response, like a fighter covering up under an advancing foe.
“You had your hand on my arm.”
“Yes.”
“You said not to let go.”
Avitus nodded. “There was no time … I couldn’t let you be arrested!” His voice pleaded, but his eyes looked away.
That laugh again, cold as iron.
“Not the only time, I’m thinking.”
“No,” Avitus whispered.
“All this time,” Julian said, “I thought it was me. Julian the Clever, who can get out of every scrape!” He threw another pebble, far. “Is Tykonos in on this comedy, too?”
Avitus looked up. “No. Never!”
“My dear mother’s secret, then.”
“Yes.”
“And yours. What a fool I’ve been. Julian the Fortunate, favored by the gods!”
Avitus wanted to say that wasn’t true, that Julian had many times outwitted and outfought his opponents. That he was by far the smartest man he knew. None of those words came.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
Julian stood. “Quiet for a while,” he said. “Leave me be.” He took a few steps away.
“Master ….”
Julian gestured impatiently. “I won’t go far,” he growled.
Avitus stayed silent and listened to the wailing of his heart.
Julian did not go far. He stood apart, under the cherry trees, and Avitus did not dare to disturb him. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go,” and picked up his pack.
Avitus tried to apologize again, but Julian waved it away.
“You did what you thought best,” he said as they set out. The sun was low in the west. “I am not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.”