Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  “I don’t think he likes me,” she said. The four of them walked in their usual formation, with Avitus ahead, Julian behind, and the girl and dog flitting between.

  “He does not dislike you,” Avitus said. He did not want to have to reassure this stray girl.

  Petra cooped up a stone as she walked. Bucephalus snuffed at it then ignored it in approval.

  “It’s because I’m an orphan,” she said, a few minutes later.

  “What is?” Avitus had been thinking about their supplies and whether he might venture down to a farm alone. He wished she would stop talking.

  “He’s a nobleman,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I’m not.”

  Avitus looked at her grimy face, her tangle of black hair, her ragged clothes, and laughed. “No you are not,” he agreed.

  Petra threw her rock into the ground and stamped her foot without breaking stride. “Don’t laugh at me!” She clenched both fists. Bucephalus growled swinging his head toward Avitus.

  “Better not laugh at her, little bird,” Julian said from behind. “The dog doesn’t like it.”

  “I wasn’t,” Avitus replied, keeping a wary eye on the dog.

  Petra jutted out her lower lip and said to him, “Were so.” She patted Bucephalus on his wide head and said, “Good dog.” The stub of his tail wagged twice.

  “Listen, girl,” Avitus began.

  “My name is Petra.”

  “Listen, Petra,” he continued heavily, “if my master did not like you, he would not have brought you along. He can be quite heartless about such things.”

  This was not strictly true, but he wanted the girl to show more gratitude. And less dog.

  “And,” he went on, “no nobleman in all the Empire is less concerned with nobility. He judges people not by their ancestors but by their words and actions. You, Miss Petra, would do well to mind yours.”

  “Hmph!” Petra said, and up went that chin.

  She did such a fine imitation of an offended lady, Avitus had to smile.

  “Give him more time,” he said kindly. “He has been through much, lost much, and has much still to do.”

  Petra thought about this for several strides, then nodded. “I can help,” she said. “So can Bucephalus.”

  “I begin to see that you can,” Avitus said. “May I call on you at need?”

  She frowned a little.

  “That is, will you help if I ask?”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes. Bucephalus and me both. We can help lots.”

  They soon ran out of food. Petra complained, often and loudly, that her stomach hurt. Goblins appeared twice. Both times, Avitus insisted everyone gather close, making them invisible. Petra accepted this without much comment, except to repeat, once the danger had passed, that she was hungry.

  Only the dog prospered. Each day around sunset, he would trot off, to return some time later with a blood-smeared mouth and a wagging tail.

  “Can’t you get him to bring us a rabbit?” Avitus asked, peevishly.

  “Or a cow?” Julian added.

  Petra spoke earnestly to the dog, who listened carefully, and curled up to sleep.

  “We must find food tomorrow,” Avitus said to no one in particular. He repeated it, in case the gods were listening.

  “The bounty of the Empire,” Julian said, head down, speaking to his empty hands. “Perhaps tomorrow I should go hunt with Bucephalus. He seems to be the most successful of us.”

  They sank into silence, too hungry and discouraged to talk. They dragged like anchors through the night.

  The next morning was worse. Real pain twisted at Avitus’ gut. He began considering how he might kill Bucephalus. The efforts of yesterday drained him.

  “Onward,” Julian said.

  They spotted a villa later that morning, well to the south but clearly visible atop an out-thrust arm of the mountains. By mid-day details could be seen, as could a road that wound up from the lowlands. Avitus could, by squinting, make out an olive grove, some fields that had been harvested, and a low wall running around the compound of buildings that comprised the villa itself. Farmland spread down the gentle slopes.

  “We’ll find food there for sure,” he said to Petra. He found himself talking to the girl rather often now.

  “For certain sure!” she agreed. “Food for my dog, too.”

  “Without a doubt.” He looked back at Julian. “Perhaps we can rest there for the night?”

  Julian looked up. “What? Oh. Rest. Perhaps.”

  That passed for a complete sentence, these days.

  Julian stopped them at the entrance.

  “Stay here,” he told them. “I have been to this place. If the owner is at home, he will trust me.”

  Avitus leaned against the wall. “Dio Rullianus Pictor,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Julian said. “This is good news. Constantinople is not far now. A day, maybe two. Stay here; I won’t be long.”

  Avitus sat against the wall. “I hope they have all fled,” he said.

  Julian nodded, then went through the gateway.

  The main house lay ahead, at the end of a long, graveled walkway. On the left was a small house where the villa foreman lived with his little family. Julian remembered him as a neat, prim man who was aware of his special position in the estate. On the right were stables, always full of fine horses. He took a moment to look—no horses remained.

  Avitus watched Julian go toward the house. He started to follow, stopped himself, and forced himself to be content with trying to watch every inch of the villa for movement. Goblins don’t lie in ambush, he told himself, but his eyes still darted this way and that.

  Julian had just reached the doorway beneath the portico when the dog left.

  “Bucephalus!” Petra hissed, but the dog ignored her. He trotted briskly toward the long, low building on the right.

  “Cursed dog,” Avitus muttered.

  Petra threw a baleful look at him, then ran after the dog.

  “Twice cursed child!”

  Again he started forward and again he restrained himself. At least one of them should follow Julian’s instructions. He waited. His eyes flickered around the villa, and now his ears strained for any sound of scream or struggle. It annoyed him mightily that all he heard was the coo of a pair of doves.

  Petra returned first, the dog just behind her. He carried four sacks slung over his back like saddlebags, while the girl carried two more, along with a wide smile.

  “Food!” she sang out as she neared, “lots of it!”

  She unloaded the dog and spread the sacks, emptying contents at random, crying out “Lemons!” or “Meat!” as she did so, proud as any barbarian displaying her plunder.

  Avitus snatched up an apple and bit into it. The sweet juices and tart flesh exploded in his mouth. He felt his stomach roll in anticipation.

  For a time, neither of them spoke, never letting their mouths go empty, smiling sunnily at each other. Bucephalus snuffed up the scraps. They did not notice Julian until he was almost upon them.

  He walked unsteadily, barely glancing at the food. “We need to get going, Avi, before they notice the fire.”

  “What fire?” Avitus asked as he scrambled to his feet. “Julian?”

  His master turned toward the mountains and kept walking. Avitus waved one hand, which held a piece of bread. “You should eat!” He waved again. “What fire?”

  Julian gave no sign he heard. He stumbled, but kept his feet.

  Avitus cursed, looked toward the villa again, and there was the fire. Black billows spread outward from the main house, thinning up toward the sky. He cursed again.

  “Petra, gather up all the food and follow quick as you can.” Without waiting to hear her reply, he ran after Julian. Makes good speed for a dying man, Avitus thought. Aloud he muttered, “Cac, cac, cac, cac,” as he ran.

  It took only moments to catch up. Julian was at the corner of the villa wall, one hand on the masonry.

  “Julian,”
Avitus said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “what is wrong? What happened?”

  “Goblins’ll see the smoke,” Julian said. His head hung low and his voice was weak.

  “They’ll see, but they won’t come. They’ve never come after our campfires.” He tried to ease Julian to the ground. “Besides, you aren’t going to get very far. We have food, Julian. All we can carry.” Julian slid downward, back to the wall. “There,” Avitus said. “ Rest. Get strong. Then we’ll go on.”

  Julian looked up at him and Avitus’ heart recoiled. When had that face gone from thin to gaunt?

  “I have a plan, little bird.”

  “You always do, master.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I never do, master. But later, all right?”

  By evening, they had eaten twice and had managed to get a few miles up country, away from the villa. A heavy rainstorm tromped in from the southeast, drenching everyone.

  They were deep among cedars by nightfall. Julian found a shallow cave where they huddled against the rain that showed no sign of easing. They struck no fire, but only sat with full, somewhat queasy bellies, ready for sleep. Avitus was drifting off when Julian began to speak.

  “I knew that place,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it was clear and firm. “I thought I recognized it, but I knew when I saw the owl on the portico, sitting atop a capital R made of oak branches. It belongs to a friend of my family. I visited there a few times during harvest, at just this time of year.”

  Avitus had been gradually easing his way down a tree trunk toward a prone position; he levered himself back to sitting.

  “I can still see the family, always a great tumble of children, an army of servants, tables filled with food, all presided over by Rullianus and his wife, both gracious and interesting. He was a civil servant of some kind or other.”

  Petra was listening as well. Avitus wondered what she thought of Julian’s rambling.

  “The place was just as I remembered it. I knew where to look, what I would find.” Julian paused, a hitch in his breath. “What I thought I would find.”

  The coolness in Julian’s voice bothered Avitus. Something bad had happened. Julian was in pain, but he was masking it. That rarely worked out well.

  “So. There was the owl. There was the portico, with its jolly frescoes of country life, its blue and white tiles. The entry, wide enough for whole families to greet inside its walls.”

  He chuckled, dry and choppy.

  “Not that family, though. Eleven children! I remember my father asking him why he had eleven children. ‘Because we did not want twelve!’ Rullianus had replied. I don’t think my father laughed, but I thought it funny.”

  The light was fading fast, but Avitus could see Julian was not speaking directly to him, nor to anyone, but was leaned back against a tree, looking upward, speaking to the heavens.

  “The air was cooler inside. We usually visited in August or September, and we children would flee to the marbled floors of the interior porticoes. And there it was still: the garden always in flower, the lemon trees, the laurel and bay. At the center was a fountain they had lined with jade so it appeared to be green water.

  “To the left, Rullianus’ fine library, private rooms above. Dining hall across. I went there, not sure why. Maybe it was the silence. The villa was ever a busy place, but now it was silent except for a steady buzz.”

  Julian fell silent, as if listening to that sound.

  “So. I went into the dining hall.” He drew a deep, ragged breath. “That’s when I smelled it, and I knew. I have learned what a dead body smells like. I have not learned much since I became a General, but I have learned that much.”

  Julian passed a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “Petra, girl,” he said without looking, “pass me a skin of water, would you? I feel smoke in my throat.”

  Julian took a long drink, sat for a moment, and drank again.

  “So,” he said, “but I keep saying that, don’t I? I feel as if my mind keeps wandering away into the forest and I have to keep dragging it back. Or perhaps it’s my heart.”

  He sighed.

  “I knew they were dead, but I was not prepared for what I found. Goblins did not come to the villa. I found the family in the kitchen—a big place, for such a villa—and bodies lay everywhere. Rullianus. Messalla. Three of their children. Little ones, who were perhaps grandchildren. Some of the servants. He likely gave the servants the choice to stay or go; that would be like him.”

  “Julian,” Avitus said, “you don’t have to say….”

  “Yes I do, Avi. Rullianus deserves that.” Now he looked directly at him. Avitus wished he hadn’t.

  “He knew what was coming. Maybe he’d seen some of it. Surely he saw the outrunner bands. Had heard about the army … ah, gods!” Julian clutched at his stomach, but when Avitus moved to help, he waved him away. He thought of the desperation Rullianus must have felt, to kill his entire family.

  “It comes over me suddenly, that’s all. Like a sword to the belly.” Julian straightened. “Their cuts were to the throat.” He looked at Petra. “These are harsh words for a little girl,” he said.

  “They’re just words,” Petra said. “I saw. Back home.”

  Julian nodded. “So. The buzzing was the flies, you see. Clouds of them. That’s what brought me around. I was just standing there. Weeping, I think. Not really sure. But suddenly the black clouds coming up from those poor bodies made me think of goblins finding them, of what would happen, and I couldn’t just leave it.

  “I keep retreating, Avi. I keep losing. I keep giving up pieces of Rome, but that was the last. I found oil and struck a fire and there is one piece of Rome the Horde cannot have.

  “And that’s the last. I’m not giving up anything more. You,” he took in Avitus, Petra and Bucephalus with a gesture, “you are all I have left, and they can’t have you.”

  His voice was as cool and stiff as iron. “I have a plan,” he said. To Petra he said, “Avi and I will talk alone now.”

  The girl nodded, yawning. “We’ll stay here.”

  Julian took Avitus out of earshot. He stopped and looked at the Scythian steadily. “I have a plan,” he said.

  “Yes. You said that before.”

  “It’s a good plan.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Avitus said.

  “But I need your help.”

  Avitus glanced over. The look in his eyes nearly broke his heart. “You have always had my aid.”

  Julian pushed his heart over a cliff. “I need you to make me invisible, Avi. Go with me, into the goblin camp. Bring me right up to the Gniva, and I will kill him dead.”

  Avitus nodded. His lips pressed tight together, but his gaze was steady. “I know.”

  “You will make me invisible, and so get me close to the Gniva.”

  “Yes.”

  “You may not be able to keep hold of me once I get near it.”

  “No.”

  Julian walked away for a moment, his mind churning. He turned and came back to Avitus, putting his face close.

  “There is no hope,” he said, quietly.

  “There is hope, master. Hope we can do the deed. Then we turn hope over to others.”

  “There’s still the matter of the girl and her dog. I can’t just abandon them, but neither can we bring them into the battle.” He paused. “I may have an idea about that, but I’m not sure I like it.”

  Julian trailed off, then yawned widely.

  “We should sleep, master.”

  “Agreed,” Julian said. “I’m half dead, but I should let the other half sleep, anyway.”

  In the darkness, a small smile crept onto Avitus’ face and settled there like a butterfly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  To the City

  The Legion reached Constantinople the next day. Scouts had been reporting goblin packs roaming all over the countryside since dawn, so Marcus had everyone at the quick march. The ground was still soggy from ye
sterday’s storm, which promised to slow the Horde down, at least a little.

  By noon they were coming to outlying communities—farmhouses, shops, even a few taverns. The rolling countryside obscured the City itself from view, but Marcus knew they had to be close. Refugees were everywhere, hurrying in all directions, cutting across the road, everyone getting in everyone’s way. More than once Marcus had to threaten force to get carts off the road and out of the way. It pained him to see the animals, the little children, serious and frightened. Some of these would die today.

  They passed between through a shallow valley and at last saw the City. Its huge walls shone white, for large stretches were faced with marble, especially at the gates. Three miles long, thirty to forty feet high, these were the biggest walls ever built. Cries of amazement came from the Thervingians.

  “It is as grand as Julian said it was,” Inglena said to Marcus. “Is the whole city inside such walls?”

  “Not like the ones you see. Look to the right, do you see the water?”

  Blue water shimmered in the distance.

  “These walls run right down to the water there,” Marcus said, “to the Sea of Marmara. The Thessalonika Gate is there. Much of the wealth of the City comes through that gate.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “The City is guarded mainly by the sea,” Marcus went on. “The Sea of Marmara on one side, the Golden Horn on the other.” He added hastily, “called that for the wealth that comes into the docks there. This road,” Marcus indicated the Via Hadriana, “goes to the Charisius Gate. Runs right into the heart of the City. There are other gates.” He named them, but her eyes were glassing over.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We just need to get inside.”

  Less than a quarter mile further, a goblin band appeared on the road just ahead of them, sending people flying in every direction. A scout reported more bands were to the west.

  Inglena wheeled her horse and approached Marcus. Thrasimund was close behind.