by Ellis Knox
“We’ll take some warriors and clear the road,” she said, even as she signaled for riders.
“I’ll get our people inside,” Marcus said. “Listen for the trumpet call. One long blast, repeated. When you hear it, follow the sound to the gate.
He shouted the order to the bugler to sound charge.
“To the City!” he cried.
They charged. Low buildings were now on both sides of the road, though set back some distance, for it was forbidden to build next to a military road.
The goblin band numbered at least a hundred—two dozen packs running down their victims on the main road, chasing them into side roads and even into buildings. The refugees were a thousand or more, so some got away through nothing more than pure luck. Even as he ran, he saw one young couple standing hand in hand, mouths open, eyes wide, as three goblin packs raced past them. Inglena’s horsemen swept by, cutting down the goblins, and still the couple stood, frozen.
“Run, you fools!” Marcus shouted at them. “Run for the gates!”
His words finally moved them. He ran past, then heard the man call, “the gates are closed!”
He nearly stumbled at the words. Closed? Impossible!
The road sloped down the Fifth Hill toward the Charisius Gate, the main entry point from Hadrianopolis. On the west side of the road, in the open area below the walls, a fierce fight had developed between the Thervings and the goblins. Equine screams joined the sound of human screams.
The Gate was just ahead. From the corner of his eye Marcus saw two goblin packs charging from his left. He shouted and gestured, and the Legion formed up to deal with them.
“Wait here, Ursinus,” Marcus said. “Hold the standard high so our people can see it. I’ll see about the gate.”
He ran into the entryway. As with all the wall gates, this one sat beneath a tall tower. The gate doors were set on the inside, so any enemy would have to pass through a twenty-foot tunnel protected by arrow slits and murder holes. The doors themselves were of huge oak beams that had been treated against fire, bolted together with wide iron bands and studded with iron bolts.
And they were indeed closed.
Marcus would have pounded on them in a fury, but he could not get within ten feet, for a crowd was already there, shrieking, pounding, kicking. He turned away, thinking furiously. He had to get inside. Try another gate? He had a mad notion of somehow scaling the walls. His mind was turning in circles.
Then, miraculously, the gates swung. The small crowd shoved their way inside even before the doors were fully open.
Inside, several City Guards were being restrained by a mob of citizens. An enormously fat man in green robes stepped out from among them, gesturing.
“Get your people inside,” he said, “I cannot hold this gate open for long.”
Marcus waved acknowledgment, raced back outside.
“Sound the call,” he told the bugler. He looked anxiously for Inglena and Thrasimund. There were the rixen. Therving civilians streamed through the defensive perimeter set by the Romans. Goblins were on both sides, but many of the packs preferred the easier prey of fleeing locals. More goblins would come, though.
Marcus gave orders to hold for the Thervings. The bugler’s call sounded again and again, a long, wavering note that sounded like the call of an ox. The Therving civilians raced between the lines, joined by a handful of locals who seized the opportunity. Marcus was relieved to see the dazed young couple among them.
After the fifth sounding, the left flank opened and Thrasimund led his surviving warriors through the lines, then the Legion itself fell back in a fighting retreat. Marcus was among the last to get inside, close-pressed by goblins.
He heard a man shout. “Get inside now, we’ll close the gate!”
He glanced back and saw it was the big man in the green robes, gesturing furiously.
Marcus shouted, “Wait!” He looked again and there she was, with a hundred or more goblins between her and the gate.
“Again, bugler. Twice, then get inside.”
The bugler sounded his horn two times. He looked at Marcus, lifted his chin, and sounded it a third time. Then he ran.
The goblins were charging the gate. Charging at him. He pulled his sword and set himself. The metallic stink of the monsters flowed over him.
They were not quite close enough to begin their leaping when Inglena burst through, slashing away right and left. Therving warriors and rixen followed close behind, knocking goblins away, though not without losses.
Marcus gasped, then gestured frantically at the gate. Inglena wheeled at his side, waving her people on. As the last of them went through, Marcus and Inglena followed. They went through the entryway; Inglena dismounted and ran to Marcus’ side, her sword ready and gleaming.
Even as they did so, archers stepped forward, loosing a heavy volley.
Besides the arrows, defenders at the tunnel were jabbing spears through murder holes, and were also firing arrows. The goblins in the tunnel quickly died, and the defenders in the tower kept others from getting through.
The fat man yelled orders throughout. He directed some to drag away bodies, then got the doors swung shut again. The huge tree trunk bolt slid home, and the gate was secure. Marcus stood bent over, with his hand on his knees, winded. He looked up and saw green robes.
“The other gates?”
“All closed, by order of the City Prefect. These fools,” he waved a hand in the direction of the Guards, “interpreted the order rather too strictly. Are you hurt?”
“I am not, and I thank you for it,” Marcus said. He stood erect. “Marcus Salvius of the Legio XII Heraclea.”
The man’s eyes sat recessed between heavy brows and rounded cheeks. “Indeed?” he said. “This is extraordinary good fortune. My name is Tykonos, once of Trebizond but lately of the White Dog Inn. I flatter myself to presume our mutual friend has mentioned me. Where is Julian?”
His grip was strong, and although he was sweating with the heat, he was not winded. His round face and full lips seemed to be on the edge of laughter, but his light brown eyes were reserved, calculating. His green robes were of fine silk, and gems sparkled from several rings on his fingers. Behind him crowded a dozen or more men, poorly-dressed but well-armed. They were not City Guard. They certainly were not soldiers. But they were toughs. They carried clubs openly and carelessly. An innkeeper with a gang. Interesting company you kept, Julian. Marcus’ lips compressed and his jaw tightened.
“Master Tykonos,” he began.
“Please,” Tykonos said. His left hand fluttered; blue gems glittered. “Let us be informal, new friends by way of our acquaintance with Julian.”
“Master Tykonos, General Metellus fell at Hadrianopolis.”
Tykonos paled. His eyes searched Marcus’ as if looking for some refutation. “It cannot be true,” he whispered.
Something crashed hard against the gates, followed by another and another.
“It is true,” Marcus said. “Our standard-bearer saw him vanish into the center of the Horde.”
“Then no one saw him die?”
Another crash at the gate.
“Innkeeper,” Marcus said harshly, “he is gone. No one saw the emperor die either, but that doesn’t make him any less dead. Now, fetch the City Prefect to me. I’ll be checking each of the gates, so he’ll have to find me.”
He turned away without a glance, never doubting his order would be obeyed. He turned to Inglena.
“Where did you go?” he all but yelled. “I said clear the road, not ride off cross country!”
Inglena looked at him sharply. “We were protecting our people,” she said. “Same as you.”
He had not even realized he was angry until he heard his own voice. “Sorry,” he said. “I was afraid I had lost you.”
“And when I saw you standing there, I thought I’d lost you.” Now she was angry.
“The gate would have closed,” Marcus said. “You would have been trapped.”
&nb
sp; “We would have gone to another gate.”
“All the gates are closed.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Thank you.”
“I’m just glad you made it,” Marcus said. “Now we have to see to the defense.”
He quickly gave orders, sending a cohort to man the gates westward, taking another east and leaving one in place. The rest he ordered to stand down, as they would be needed soon enough.
“What about me?” Inglena asked.
“Go with the others and find a place to camp. We need food, water, room for the tents, and space for a hospital. Bring Ursinus, he can help with the details and the standard will lend authority.”
“And you?”
“I’ll see to the gates, then I’m getting up on the wall. I need to see how high these monsters can jump.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The Tower of Saturn
Marcus returned to the Tower of Saturn after checking the eastward gates. He found them secured, but only lightly held. Their commanders were glad to have the help of a legion’s cohort, even undermanned.
When they learned the XII had been at Hadrianopolis, they wanted to know every detail. They had heard a thousand rumors and asked after each of them. He answered a few: yes, the Emperor Valens was dead; no, the barbarians did not conjure up monsters; yes, they could perform sorcery. He had to cut them off or they’d have him there past sunset.
He returned two hours later to the Tower of Saturn, the tower that protected the Gate of Charisius. Each of the City’s five gates were ensconced beneath a strong tower that was fully twenty yards square, with room on top for a catapult and a score of archers. It rose another twenty feet above the top of the walls, with a clear line of fire along the wall’s length. Secondary fortifications stood at intervals between the main towers. Constantine’s engineers had designed the defenses to withstand attacks from armies and barbarians. They had not thought to design against monsters.
He climbed the stone stairs up the tower. As hot as the day was outside, the heat inside was unbearable, as the stones served as a sort of oven. Below, men bathed in sweat as they stood atop the ceiling of the entry, shooting arrows down through murder holes.
When he reached the top, the hot, humid air felt refreshing and cool. Marcus stepped down onto the wall and looked around, assessing.
Civilians crowded the stairs, carrying laden sacks up and empty ones down. At the top, a soldier was trying to direct the traffic, for everyone had to pass through the narrow door. He spotted Marcus.
“Salve, Tribune,” the soldier called out loudly to Marcus. Over his shoulder, even louder, “Hoy, Arrian! Officer on the wall!”
The soldier returned to his directing, as civilians were starting to pile up and block the door. Marcus stepped out onto the wall and scanned its length. Ten feet wide, the wall easily accommodated soldiers, supplies, and weapons—even a few platforms built to hold a catapult. But there were no catapults, not enough soldiers and too few supplies. Instead, the wall was crowded with civilians, some of whom were carrying rocks or spears which they piled up at intervals. Far more of them were standing at the crenelation, pointing outward and talking in excited tones.
He saw a total of five archers, none of whom appeared to have enough arrows. Perhaps half of them had spears. The whole gave an impression of a poorly run frontier garrison.
“Salve,” a voice called. It belonged to a ruddy-faced man with light brown hair tied back, German style.
“You in charge here?” Marcus asked.
“I am until the next man wants the job. Name’s Arrian Silvianus.” He reached his hand out in greeting.
“Marcus Salvius.”
“Oh, cac.” He lowered his hand, trying to come to a stop and attention at the same time. “Sorry, Commander.”
Marcus waved it off. “No harm.”
“Commander? Are you the commander? General Metellus?” This, from a piping voice that belonged to a young man with far too many rings on his fingers and pox marks on his face.
“I’m not General Metellus,” Marcus said.
The scarred face fell. “Oh dear. He should be here. Or some General or other. Bring some order to all this.” He waved one hand around in the air. “It’s disgraceful, don’t you think? Of course you do. All this riff-raff.”
“I agree,” Marcus said. His lips were tight against his teeth. “Let’s start with you.”
“Yes. What?” The aristocrat’s face went through gyrations of comprehension followed by indignation. “Oh! Mind your place, sir!”
“This is my place and I’m minding it. This is my command and you are on my wall. Now, get off it. Soldier!” He gestured to one of the merlon-leaners. The man deigned to stand upright in response.
“Get this fellow off my wall. Then report back to me. I have an assignment for you.”
“It’s the Commander of the XII, you dog! Look sharp!” Arrian all but grabbed the aristocrat by his collar.
“Well this is disgraceful,” the man said, wrapping himself in outrage. “I shall tell the authorities of this!”
“You do that,” Marcus said, as the soldier escorted the man away. “In fact, you should tell the City Prefect.”
“Sorry about that, sir,” Arrian said. “You see the problem. Every one of them thinks he has some sort of Imperial decree that says he’s allowed up here.”
“We’ll run them all off,” Marcus said. He cocked his head. “I don’t remember you. What’s your legion?”
“The XV. Only survivor, as far as I know. We took it hard.”
“We’ll give some back then, right?”
“Vere.” He flashed a broken-toothed grin.
Marcus looked over the battlement at the goblins.
They ran into and out of buildings, sometimes appearing at a window or on a roof. Once in a while, a scream from somewhere below served notice that goblins had found another victim.
As Marcus watched, two packs ran into the entryway, but none came out again. He nodded with satisfaction. The men down there were doing their job.
Other soldiers had gathered at adjacent crenels, also watching.
“Why don’t they do nothin’?” a soldier asked.
“They are doing something. They are hunting,” Marcus said.
“I mean, there must be hundreds of them.”
“Thousands,” said another.
“Oh aye then, thousands. Whyn’t they attack, all together like?”
Marcus leaned farther out. He could just manage to see straight down at the base, where two packs were scrabbling at the marble facing.
“They are waiting,” he said.
“Waiting for what?”
Another soldier, this one from the XII, answered. “They’re waiting for the Gniva.”
From further down the wall, Marcus saw Inglena approaching. She waved and he waved back, then felt self-conscious and lowered his hand, then was angry with himself for that.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said, hurrying up. “It took longer than I expected to get my people settled.”
“Is all well?” he asked, feeling the formality in his voice.
“Yes,” she said. “I put healers in a building nearby, but there are no soldiers at all. There are many—citizens, do you call them?—oh, civilians. The ones who do not fight. But they are on the wall, some with swords or spears. I believe they wish to help but mostly they get in the way and refuse to listen to my warriors. They treat us like children, Marcus, they really do.”
“I’ll post a few soldiers,” Marcus said. “I can spare only a few.” He gestured along the length of the wall. “As you see. There is too much wall and too few soldiers. We may have to depend on civilians to fill the gaps.”
Marcus glanced left and then right. He watched the people hauling baskets of heavy stones intended for hurling down on the enemy. There were, he noted, as many bricks and cobblestones as there were actual rocks. The City was tearing itself apart in its own de
fense.
Inglena leaned out from the wall. Marcus did not have to. He could hear packs attacking the wall, slashing at it with their claws then running off again. Like the wall itself was a beast and might attack in turn.
One of the younger soldiers looked over the side. “Hell, Commander, they think they gonna claw their way in?”
Through the nervous laughter, Marcus said harshly, “You have any reason to think they can’t?”
“Well, no sir, but I mean … That is, they’ll have to do a powerful lot of digging, eh?”
Marcus didn’t answer. He started back toward the Saturn Tower. As he walked, he saw between the merlons larger and larger bodies of goblins swarming. The Horde was arriving.
At the Tower, a soldier leaned against the doorway. He was a hard-looking man, missing one ear and several teeth. The soldier nodded as Marcus approached, but did not come to attention.
“Commander, there’s two someones to see you down below. One says he’s the City Prefect. He had a whole list of titles but that’s the one I remember. The other’s a fellow says he’s a friend of General Metellus. I wouldn’t know about that. Called himself Tykonos of somewhere or other.”
“Soldier,” Marcus said. His eyebrows were low over his eyes. “What is your legion?”
“The XIV,” he said. “Third Cohort.”
“That was a good legion,” Marcus said, “with a good general.”
“Sextus Ursicinus,” the man said.
“Then honor the XIV by showing me the same respect you showed General Ursicinus. You’re in the XII now, and I’m your commander.”
Suddenly abashed, the man drew himself up. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I meant no disrespect. I … things have not been according to rule since the battle.”
“Rules do not disappear just because there are no officers around,” Marcus said.
The soldier took a half step back. “Aye sir. Do you have a message for the Prefect?”
“Tell them to come up. They should see this.” He gestured outward from the wall. “And bring water. It’s damned hot up here.”
“Yes sir,” the man of the XIV said, “at once.”