by Ellis Knox
After he had gone, Marcus said to Inglena, “Any other day, I would have busted him down to last rank, and fined him for good measure.”
The Prefect arrived first, trailed by an aging and worried-looking assistant. Marcus greeted them with what he hoped was a friendly aspect, despite not feeling at all friendly. To the lack of supplies and soldiers he now had to add a lack of discipline.
The Prefect was young for the job, with brown hair in careful curls; probably somebody’s beloved son or nephew, Marcus supposed. The notion irked him. Prefecture was supposed to be a reward for a long career of distinguished service, not a plum for the privileged.
“Welcome,” Marcus said, more amiably than he felt. “Thank you for coming. I thought you should see this.” He gestured outward.
Goblins scrabbled at the wall, making the Prefect look behind him, then all around with a wild look in his eye.
“Be easy,” Marcus said, “they can’t jump this high.” He could not keep himself from adding, “Yet.”
The Prefect did not look reassured. He stood with his back against the tower wall. His eyes flitted anxiously between Inglena and Marcus. Another loud rattle from beyond the wall made him start. He dabbed at his brow. Marcus decided the youth needed to be led a bit.
“I wanted to talk with you, but first you should take a good look at the enemy.” He placed a comradely hand on the Prefect’s shoulder and guided him to the wall’s edge. He had to push, but did it discreetly. He was fairly sure no one but himself heard the Prefect’s squeak when he looked out.
More goblins than ever were there, and more were coming. Goblins hurled themselves against the whole length of the wall, clawing at it, falling back, jumping again, like a storm-whipped sea. The Prefect kept flinching. At last Marcus released him and the man stumbled backward.
“Apologies, sir,” Marcus said quickly, “clumsy of me.”
The Prefect retreated to the tower wall. He looked at Marcus with wide eyes, like a captured animal.
“I wanted to know, sir, if I might take command of the City Guard, in consultation with you, of course. It would be best if the defense was under one hand.”
The Prefect continued to stare.
The aged assistant, who had accompanied the Prefect, whispered in his ear.
“Yes,” the young man said to Marcus. “That is sensible. All the City has is yours, if you can save it.”
Marcus took hold of his temper. “Thank you,” he said, through clenched teeth. Politics.
A crash from below, and the Prefect flinched again.
“I don’t want to keep you,” Marcus said, his jaw still tight. “I’m sure you have many duties.”
The City Prefect looked surprised, then relieved. “I do. A great many. I should go. I really should.”
Marcus did not trust himself to say more until after the Prefect and his aide had left.
“We won’t be seeing that one again,” Marcus said.
“He was afraid,” Inglena said.
“It is a natural reaction,” Tykonos said, “but commanders are not permitted to have natural reactions.”
Marcus still glowered.
“I have something more for you, Commander,” Tykonos said. “Something in the nature of direct help.”
“What?” His mind was still on the Prefect. Oh well, he thought, trying to calm himself, it means I can command the Guard without interference. That’s worth something.
“You will want to see for yourself. Can you spare a moment?”
“I cannot spare much of anything, right now,” Marcus said.
“Not even for more fighters?”
That got Marcus’ attention. “Lead on, but don’t take too long.”
They entered the heat of the Tower and descended the stairs. To emerge outside was a relief.
Marcus looked up and down the street, but did not see anything obvious. He looked at Inglena, who shrugged.
“It is this way,” Tykonos said. “We’ll be quick as we can.”
Marcus’ mouth twitched. “Be quicker,” he said. His mind was still on the gates and how to reinforce them.
They followed Tykonos around a corner, then down a street and into a courtyard. There were gathered about two dozen people of various stations and ages. Most of them wore the tunics of the working class, two wore beggars’ rags, but one woman was dressed in fine, white linen. She stood apart, looking uncomfortable at finding herself among the rabble.
As Tykonos approached, a young woman, hardly more than a girl, stepped forward. She had bright red hair, masses of freckles, and pale skin. She wore a faded blue shift and aged sandals. In her hand was an earthenware jug. She looked anxiously at the innkeeper.
“Here they are, Celie,” he said to her. He reached out to pat her pale arm. “Do not be afraid. Do as we rehearsed, hey?”
The girl nodded mutely and stepped back. She set the jug down. The others in the courtyard moved back. The girl stared at the jug. A long moment passed, then another. The girl broke off her staring and looked at Tykonos, giving a little exasperated sigh.
“Tykonos,” Marcus said, impatiently. He kept thinking of the gates. Wagons were no good. He had to keep the goblins from ever getting to the gates in the first place.
The merchant held up a hand. To the girl he said, “Take a breath, dear girl. You’ve done this before. I believe in you.”
She looked back to the jug and resumed her staring. Marcus was about to dismiss the whole thing when he noticed the jug was gone.
He blinked, his attention now fully in the moment. There had been no sound. No one had moved. But the jug that had been there before him now was not.
“Where did it go?” he asked.
“She does not know.”
“Can she bring it back?” Inglena asked, excitement in her voice.
“No. It is gone.”
The significance began to sink in. “Can she do that with … bigger things?”
“We do not know. We have been afraid to try.”
Inglena gestured at the others. “Can they all do this?”
“Only she,” Tykonos said, “but they all can do something.”
“Gods above us,” Inglena said wonderingly. “Romans are magicians.”
“Just these few,” Tykonos said, “though there may be more. Sorcery is a crime in Rome, so some are probably hiding their abilities.”
“Rixen,” Inglena said. Bitterness edged the word.
“Not if I can help it,” Marcus said forcefully. “These people will not go into exile.”
“Hah!” Tykonos said, “and where would they go, with monsters all around us?”
“Are they willing to fight?”
“Yes, yes!” Several of the people now spoke up, and all were nodding assent. The redheaded girl spoke, adding, “Although I do not know how.”
Marcus tried to show her a kindly face. “That is where we can help you.” He looked over. “Inglena, can you find a use for these people?”
“I’m sure I can.” She said she would work with them at the Thessalonika Gate, where her people were posted. Marcus watched them go.
“Julian mentioned a letter you wrote, saying something odd was happening. I would never have guessed this.”
“It is a surprise to us all,” Tykonos said.
“How long?”
“Only these past few weeks.”
“The world is changing, Master Tykonos.”
“Indeed it is.”
Marcus glanced around. “I have to get back to the wall,” he said. “Find some way to block the gates.”
“And I to the docks. Farewell, First Tribune,” Tykonos said. He cocked his head. “What about sand?”
“Sand?”
“Fill the passages. You could pour it through the murder holes.”
Marcus nodded. “It’s a notion,” he said. “It would block our own people. No way to mount an attack.”
“You would go back out?” Tykonos was clearly incredulous.
“I
will do whatever is needed,” Marcus said. He paused, then added, “I’ll keep your idea in mind.”
“I can see why Julian placed such faith in you,” Tykonos said.
As the fat man glided away, Marcus scratched at his beard. Julian had placed faith in him? The pain of loss jabbed at him again. He left the courtyard and strode toward the Gate of Charisius and a thousand problems.
The attacks ended only with darkness. The night came down hard and moonless. The stars twinkled in the heavy summer air.
They'd seen this before, the men of the XII, but never so dramatically. In the space of a half hour, the attack went from thousands of goblins clawing at the walls to none at all. The creatures were not sleeping yet. They could still be seen milling about in their seemingly aimless, insect-like fashion, but they now paid no attention to Constantinople or its fortifications, and still less to the soldiers. The ground below could not be seen, for it was covered in goblin corpses, two and three deep in places.
Men sat or laid down at their positions. Citizens brought food and water in plenty, but very little in the way of weapons. The men ate. Marcus sent citizens up to the walls to replace the soldiers. The men needed good sleep, but he was unwilling to leave the walls completely bare. Through the night, shopkeepers and laborers peered out from the walls, fearful.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
They Wash Away
Julian knew where he was now. He led Avitus and Petra higher into the hills, where they camped among pine trees, near one of the many streams that fed eventually into the cisterns of Constantinople. The following morning, he delayed departure, telling Avitus he had to tend to something. This was true, but it was also true that Avitus was visibly tiring, and Julian wanted to give him an hour or two of extra rest.
Ever since leaving the villa of Rullianus, they had encountered goblins repeatedly. Petra quickly learned to put her hand on Avitus, with her other on Bucephalus, while Julian took hold on the other side. This seemed to work, for the most part, but once Avitus’ magic appeared to fail. At least, a pack of goblins looked directly at them, changed course, and came bounding up a wide slope. On a second try, Avitus succeeded, and they were able to stand in a thicket of hornbeam while the goblins searched futilely. Then, later that same day, Petra lost her grip when she tripped and fell. This caused Avitus to lose concentration and all four of them scampered into a shed to avoid being seen.
It would be no good, Julian decided, to push Avitus to the point where he could no longer make Julian invisible. Avitus was necessary for his plan to work.
So, too, was Petra. While Avitus rested, complaining that he was ready to push on, Julian sat down with the girl and her dog.
“Listen to me, Petra. I need you to do something very important.”
Petra nodded. Her dark eyes did not stray from his.
“I need you to deliver a message. Take it to the City Prefect—he’s the most important man in the City, now…” Now Valens is dead.
“Sure, I can take him a message,” Petra said, “but why can’t you?”
“Because I have something else to do.” He saw Avitus sit up and start to speak, but he waved him to silence.
“You won’t come with me?” Petra asked. She petted anxiously at Bucephalus.
“I can’t,” Julian said. “I have something else to do.”
“What?”
“I’m going to kill the Gniva.” She looked puzzled, so he added, “The king of the goblins.”
Her hand stopped its motion. The dog whined uncertainly. “Oh,” she said. She thought a moment, then said, “How do I find him?”
Julian frowned slightly, then chased it off with a forced smile.
“I expect the gates will all be closed,” he said, “so you are going to have to go around?”
“Around?”
“To the docks.”
Her face scrunched as she sorted through that, then her eyes widened. “You mean in a boat?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“But I never been in a boat,” Petra said, her voice nearly matching the dog’s whine.
“I’ll show you what to do when we get there,” Julian said.
Avitus snorted loudly.
“Not now, Avi.”
“It’s not like there will be a later,” Avitus said. “You’re going to send this girl off on her own?”
Petra’s head tilted up. “I got Bucephalus,” she declared. “I won’t be alone.”
“Say now,” Julian said quickly, “I don’t think you should bring the dog.”
“He’s my friend,” Petra said.
“Of course he is. But he doesn’t know how to behave in a boat.”
“Me neither,” the girl said. “But he has to come with me. I won’t leave him.”
It was worth a try, Julian thought. He smiled at her. “Very well, then. Bucephalus can go, too.”
“Hmph,” was her only reply.
“Julian,” Avitus said, “why are you doing this? It’s dangerous.”
“Yes it is,” Julian replied. He knew Avitus would be the one harder to persuade. “But everything is dangerous, now. Even doing nothing is dangerous. There is only one path here. You get me close to the Gniva, I kill him, and you hide us both away.”
Avitus nodded but said nothing.
“That takes care of the goblins and us, but not the City. If the defenders know the Gniva is about to fall, that may keep them from doing anything foolish. I worry they will abandon the City, or else try some desperate attack. Disaster, either way. They will either see the Gniva fall, see the Horde disperse, or … they won’t.”
“It’s still mad,” Avitus said. “This poor girl, on her own…”
“I said I ain’t alone,” Petra said, springing to her feet. Bucephalus lumbered up to stand beside her. She put her fists on her hips. “We got out of Hadrianopolis by ourselves. We went days by ourselves and nobody made us invisible nor nothing. I ain’t no poor girl.”
She glared defiance at anyone who might disagree.
“Avitus,” Julian said, “I know the risk. Do you think I’d ask if there were any other way? If she comes with us, she will surely die. And it will take even more of your remaining strength to protect four instead of two. Can’t you understand that?”
Petra stamped her foot. “You just want to get me out of the way! You don’t even care if I take a message.”
“That’s not true,” Julian said quickly. He shot a see what you’ve done glare at Avitus. “This message, this one message, could save thousands of lives. Could save the whole city, the capital of the Empire.”
Petra’s lips pouted, but her eyes accepted.
“Are you ready to learn the message?”
She nodded, still pouting.
“Good. When you reach the docks, you are to ask for the City Prefect. Tell anyone you meet that you have a message from me—say my full name.”
She did so.
“When they take you to the City Prefect, you are not to be nervous or scared.”
“Of course not,” she said. Her lips now tightened into resolve.
“You are to say this: Hold the City until sundown tomorrow. Lucius Julianus Metellus will kill the Gniva tomorrow.”
He looked hard at her. “Repeat.”
She repeated the message.
“How will they know the Gniva has fallen?” Avitus asked.
“They should have recognized him, if any of our people have made it. But Petra, if they do not know, just tell them he’s the tall red one. Taller than any of the others.”
“I will do it,” Petra said.
“I know you will,” Julian said. “You are very brave.”
“Nuh-uh,” she said, shaking her head, “but Bucephalus is brave enough for both of us.”
Julian turned to Avitus. “I’ve got one more thing to do,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. You rest.”
“Where are you going?” Avitus half-rose in concern.
“Not far. Just to the stream. I n
eed to sort out my thoughts.” His grin felt uncertain on his face. “We will have a busy couple of days.”
“Back soon?”
“Back soon.”
Julian left the grove that had sheltered them for the night and walked down to the stream. It was a small enough deception, but he felt guilty anyway. He did not want Avitus around for this. He was not entirely sure why. Grieving, he supposed.
Water still flowed in the stream, despite the dry season. He walked along its banks for a while, thinking about everything at once but nothing in particular. The weight of failure sat on his shoulders like a vulture picking at his soul.
Everything had failed—his attempt to warn Valens, the quarrel with Lupicinus; he’d lost Marcus, Ennius, Inglena, the Legion. The old Julian could have borne it. That Julian was the shiftless, spoiled child who liked to play in gutters and liked even more to shock. He pictured that Julian standing on Constantinople’s wall, watching the Horde sweeping over the hills. That Julian would have said, “well, that’s that,” and gone to have one last, grand revel with Tykonos.
The old Julian was gone, perished in the mile-long hills of Dacia. He had become General Metellus of the Legio XII Heraclea, and here was the source of the pain. He had become a commander; he had begun to care. Worse, he had begun to believe—in the army, in Rome, in himself. The Horde had destroyed them all. The wretched King Fritigern was right after all. He ought to have fled.
No, he corrected himself, that was all right for the Thervingi, but not for Romans. We do not burn our tents and hide in forests. We stand and fight. We die.
The stream narrowed and deepened here, plunging over rocks in a merry burble. A huge, misshapen elm tree stood near, one whole side was sheared away by some storm. A shattered limb, as thick as a man, lay nearby. Almost a tree in itself, branches jutted in all directions, ending in twigs but no leaves. Dogrose wound through the dead branches, casting a pale pink blanket over the corpse. Fallen, the word drifted through his mind. Fallen.
He reached out and broke off a slender branch, a finger wide. It snapped easily. A few twigs fell to the ground. He sat on a rock next to the noisy water, which sparkled in the hot sun. His hands broke a small piece off the branch.