by Ellis Knox
Julian said, “Kratos, of the Third Cohort” in a clear voice as he threw the twig into the water. It swirled and bobbed in the quick current, and hurried away between white rocks.
He broke off another twig. “Horatius, also of the Third,” he said, and threw the twig in. “Antoninus Crito, Fourth Cohort” and “Titus Milo, First Cohort” followed, then four more and the branch was gone.
He got another.
A few minutes later, he had a pile of branches gathered and he was at “Pallas.” He worked steadily, without wiping the tears from his face, waiting for each twig to disappear before throwing in the next. The yellow sun inched westward.
“What are you doing?”
He was so lost in his task, he did not startle until he heard the dog growl. He turned. Petra stood near a hawthorn bush, one hand on the back of her huge dog.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” Julian said. “Go on back.”
“I’m not alone. You’re here.”
“Did Avi send you?”
“No,” she said, “but he’s worried about you. Goblins.”
“None are near.” He gestured widely. “No dust clouds.”
“What are you doing?” she repeated. She pointed at his pile of sticks.
He stared at the branch in his hand. “Forgetting,” he said.
“Forgetting what?”
His face twisted in pain. “The soldiers who have died.”
“All of them?” She was incredulous.
“All of them whose names I knew. Three hundred twenty four.”
“You couldn’t remember that many. Nobody could.”
“I can. I do.” He gestured with the branch. “I used to have Avi write their names on a parchment, and I would read them every night, say them out loud until I didn’t need the parchment any more. Later, there was no more parchment, so I used sticks. Each stick is a name.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
“I wouldn’t want to remember so many dead people,” Petra said.
He smiled ruefully. “Nor do I. Not any longer. They only weigh me down now. They drag at me, and since the battle there are many, many more. I’ll never know their names, so I am forgetting them all. Letting them go.”
She considered this in silence. Julian looked away.
He tossed in the twig, saying “Aulus Libo, Second Cohort.”
Petra came closer and sat down next to him. Bucephalus curled on the ground at her hip. Julian looked at his empty hands, his lips moving silently. Without a word, Petra picked up a branch, tore off a twig, and handed it to Julian.
He broke it and said, “Aemelius Paullus,” and threw the twig into the stream. They watched it swirl away and she handed him another.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ladder of Dead
A line of clouds hid the dawn, and the Horde still slept as Marcus and Inglena reached the top of the Tower of Saturn. They were talking of troop deployments, unaware they were still holding hands.
“You could keep your own rixen at the Thessalonika Gate,” Marcus said, “then spread the Thervings on either side of the Tower of Atalos.”
“I do not live here, Marcus,” Inglena said gently.
He grimaced. “Sorry. Look that way,” he took her by the shoulders and turned her westward. “You see the water?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the Sea of Marmara.”
“Ah,” she said. “The Thessalonika Gate. You told me it was near the Sea. I was there yesterday, but it looks different from up here.”
“I know. It does for me, too. Now, follow the line of the wall back toward us.” He pointed. “Do you see how it climbs, then descends into a valley between the Sixth Hill and the Seventh?”
She squinted. “I see the valley, but the hill?”
“The Sixth Hill is easy enough to see, there in front of us. It is the tallest. The Seventh Hill, though, is more a jumble of hills, off that way. Never mind. The valley holds the Lycus River. It passes under the wall there. Between the river and the hill, find the tower.”
She looked and soon pointed, saying, “There.”
“The Tower of Atalos. It protects another gate.”
“You said five gates, yesterday.”
“Yes. I’m posting Roman troops at the other three. The gates are the weakest point, so put most of your people there.”
“Thrasimund will not like standing on a wall,” Inglena said. “He wants to fight.”
“He thinks he does. As long as we stand on the wall, we aren’t dying.”
“The goblins are awake,” Inglena said.
Marcus saw movement among the dark shapes. He looked eastward, but the sun was behind a line of dark clouds on the horizon. Above them the sky shaded from rose to indigo.
“Time to go,” Marcus said. “What about those other magicians? The ones Tykonos brought?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I will work with them today; we had little time yesterday.”
The first goblins clawed at the wall. Marcus stepped away, already missing her touch, but she held him with her eyes. Be safe, he urged her silently.
She smiled as if she had heard, then turned and went down the stairs of the Tower of Saturn. The noise from the goblins grew steadily louder. “Stay down there,” he whispered at them. “Stay, starve, die.”
Marcus left the Tower and hurried along the wall eastward. The Horde was fully awake now, clattering, tearing at the wall. They could rip off the marble facing, but they then would have to dig through blocks of limestone two and three feet thick. Then rubble that filled the interior, and then the back wall of limestone. Ten feet, more in places, of stone and brick. They would tear their own claws to shreds before they got through.
Still, he thought, ever cautious, they could weaken the wall. And who knew what else they could try? Could they dig under? Did they know how to mine? Do they have weapons we have not yet seen?
Even as he fretted, Marcus was assessing the defenses along the battlement. He was pleased to see an abundance of arrows now, and at least some more spears. He was less pleased to see that most of the defenders were merely armed citizens, some of whom obviously did not know how to handle a bow. Here and there were soldiers in groups of five or six. He always took a moment to speak with these before hurrying along his way. Most distressing, though, was a nearly complete absence of City Guards. By the time he reached the Forerunner Gate—which was protected by a tower so modest it had never earned its own name—he stopped the next Guard he found.
He was an older man, with brown hair but a gray beard. Marcus recognized the type: service in the City Guard was one form of reward to veterans who had distinguished themselves in battle. The man was armed with a spear and was looking over the side at the goblins scrabbling at the wall.
“Salve,” Marcus called out as he approached. “Are you City Guard?”
The man glanced back, then quickly came to attention. “Salve, Marcus Salvius,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir, but I know who you must be. We ain’t got but one First Tribune left.”
Marcus frowned.
“Only one?” The City Guard was organized in cohorts, much the same as a legion.
“Aye.” The man looked to his feet.
“What happened to the Guard’s Tribune?”
“He run off.”
“Tell what you know, soldier,” Marcus said. “We don’t have time for long stories.”
The graybeard looked up and grimaced, then spoke. “The City Prefect fled the City this morning, sir. Took five or six ships. With him went all the best families,” he sneered the word, “and about half the City Guard. I saw them leave, sir, on the morning tide.”
“Cac,” Marcus said.
“Aye to that, sir.”
“But you’re here?”
“Some of us declined the offer, sir. Weren’t soldierly.”
“Good man,” Marcus said. After a moment he asked
, “Where’s the gate commander?”
“Didn’t see him. May have left. Some folks was plenty busy overnight, it seems.”
Marcus swore again, then offered a curse upon the ship carrying the Prefect. He considered the veteran standing before him.
“What’s your name?”
“Titus Agricolatus.”
“You now command the Forerunner Gate.”
Titus opened his mouth, closed it again, and saluted.
“Don’t let any of those beasts through your gate.”
“No, sir. Over my corpse, sir,” the veteran said fiercely.
“Good. Don’t die, then.”
Marcus started to leave, still fuming about the timid fool who had abandoned his post and the City, but he was angrier still at the aristocrats who had fled with him. He could only guess what they had taken in treasure and supplies.
He got only a few steps when a sound made him stop—a weird slapping, arhythmic yet not quite random. Drumming.
He turned back.
“Titus, get below. Barricade the gate, but use nothing flammable.”
“Hell, sir,” Titus replied, “most of what’s down there is carts and beams.”
“Pull them out. Nail skins to the door; soak them in vinegar when you can. Use stones, bricks, anything but wood!”
“Aye, sir, but why?”
Marcus pointed. Below, the swirl of goblins parted, and there stood three hobs. From in front of one rose a dark red column wreathed in black smoke. At a gesture, it sprang forward into the tunnel that held the Forerunner Gate.
“Gods,” Titus said, reeling back.
“Demons,” Marcus said. “Get below. Send up archers. Now!”
Titus Agricolatus ran down the stairs. Marcus looked again at the hobs. Another twisting red snake was rising. Most of the Horde had stopped attacking. They pulled back twenty yards or so, crowding back up the streets that formed the suburba beyond the wall. With their constant motion and the click of their talons, it was as if someone had taken a million baskets of beetles and emptied them before the City.
“Archers reporting, sir,” a voice behind his right shoulder spoke. “Is that City Guard fellow really the gate commander now?”
Marcus put on his First Tribune face and pulled back from the scene below.
“Salve, soldier,” Marcus said. “Yes he is, and I’ve got work for you.”
As if in explanation, there came a spitting, rolling sound, like water in a flood. The six archers—only six!—together looked over the side. Four cried out in dismay, two cursed foully. Only those two were from the XII Legion.
Marcus moved to a ladder secured against the modest tower, which rose only another ten feet above the top of the wall. He called back to the archers.
“Up here, men!”
The archers scrambled after Marcus. From the top he had a clear view of the hobs, who were edging closer.
“Those three,” he said, pointing. “Don’t bother with any others. Kill those three, as quick as you can.”
The hobs moved a few feet closer, then one of them began to raise another fiery snake. Marcus could not be sure, but he thought the hobs were rotating in their actions. Maybe they needed time to rest, as some of the rixen did.
“Let fly,” Marcus commanded, “and don’t wait for orders.”
The tower platform was not very large, and at first the six got in each other’s way. After some jostling, three loosed arrows then stepped back for the other three. Marcus squeezed into one corner, where he could see without hindering the archers.
The first bank missed. An arrow from the second struck a hob, which whirled in pain as it tore the arrow out. Another volley caught another hob. The archers were getting in a rhythm, and Marcus lost track of who was doing what, but very soon, one of the hobs was on the ground.
“Got one!” an archer cried.
“My kill,” cried another.
“Step back,” came from the second rank, “less talk, more arrows.”
They struck another hob, and the two standing retreated in haste. The third lay unmoving, shot full of arrows.
The archers continued to fire until the hobs had retreated out of range. The smaller goblins drew back as well.
From a safer distance, a hob tried again. Red-orange fire snaked toward the tower, striking it about halfway up, at the very end of the fire’s arc. Good, Marcus thought. Spend yourself against stone and brick, and be damned.
Marcus had just ordered the archers to stop when the Gniva appeared.
Marcus sent the archers down to the wall again, but he told them not to fire.
“Save your arrows,” he told them. “They can’t tear down the wall, and it looks like they won’t be able to get through the gates. I think we might have them.”
The archers looked doubtful, but they obeyed.
The Gniva stood behind the hobs, well out of bow range. It swayed as it stood, looking left and right along the wall. Then it ran along the edge of the Horde, between the goblins and the wall. As it passed, the goblins swept forward again, but in a different formation, and Marcus felt a chill pass through him.
Where before, the goblins had attacked all along the three miles of wall, seemingly at random, now they moved like a river that divided into sections. One branch came at the wall just east of the Forerunner Gate, where Marcus was standing. About three hundred yards away, a second river poured out from the streets of the suburba. Still further, near the Tower of Saturn, another streamed. He looked quickly to the east. From here he could not see beyond the Tower of Atalos, for the wall curved at that point. No goblins attacked from that direction.
Could it be the Horde was now assaulting selected points? Could the Gniva give such orders? Could it even make such decisions?
Marcus looked out from the tower again and saw the Gniva. It had returned to its position at the top of the Sixth Hill. However it communicated with its beasts, the thing was intelligent enough to choose a tactic and then to change it. We might have them, Marcus thought sourly, then again we might not.
He climbed back down to the wall and set out westerly. He had to see where these new attacks were concentrated. As he strode, he glimpsed the Gniva on its hill—our hill! He recalled suddenly that there used to be a lemon grove up there, but the crown of the hill had been scrubbed bare by the goblins. The Gniva, crimson and inscrutable, towered over all.
Inglena was walking with the Roman magicians when the goblinfire started. The Romans cried out and shrank against the far side.
“Do not be afraid,” she said, forcing fear from her own voice, wondering if it showed in her eyes. “The fire cannot reach us up here.”
First one then another stepped nervously forward. Two dared to peer over the side. She tried to bring their attention back to the business at hand. They had begun telling her what they could do when the goblinfire had interrupted. All she knew so far was that one could throw stones.
“Big ones, your worship, very far.”
He was not sure if he could lift them up here in the first place, though.
One could make people fall down, though he admitted this did not kill them. A woman could see far, but what use was that? She wanted to send them all away. It was like she was caring for children. But if there was the slightest possibility one of them could be useful, could kill goblins, she had to know. Every fighter counted.
She left those three near the Tower of Atalos. Of the four who remained, one was the aristocrat woman, one was some sort of craftsman, and one was a mere girl. The fourth was the redhead who made the jar disappear.
At a second point of attack, the peculiar smell of goblins, as of mouldering garlic, filled the air. It was now tinged with the harsh, metallic stink of goblin blood, and another layer of stench: rotting flesh. The heat made the stench worse; humid heat, pushed by a storm coming in from the east.
More soldiers were here, about a dozen, busy at their work killing goblins. They grunted and cursed, shooting arrows. One, lacking a bo
w, hurled stones from a pile next to him. They were deep in blood lust and barely noticed the barbarian woman and her four Roman chicks.
She put a hand to the wall and looked over. The pile of dead was several feet deep here, and getting deeper by the moment. The goblins did not avoid their dead, but leaped up the pile as if it were a ladder. She had a sudden realization.
“Stop! Stop!” she yelled as loudly as she could. “They’ll climb over!”
The soldiers ignored her at first, then one by one they seemed to recognize the danger, as goblins began to leap perilously close to the top. But it was already too late. Many goblins leaped only to crash into the wall and fall back. Many of these died, adding to the height of the pile. Those who followed jumped higher. The soldiers lay down their bows and pulled out swords, those that had them. Not all did.
Inglena tried to think of a plan. Every goblin they killed only would add to the ladder of dead. But once the goblins reached the top, there would be no choice except to fight.
She turned to the magicians who still followed her. “Get to a tower,” she said. “You cannot help up here, but if the monsters get over the wall, maybe you can fight down there.”
No one argued. They ran.
She turned to the soldiers. “I will fight by your side,” she told them. “Strike as seems best to you, but if you can, throw them over that way, into the streets, not back over the wall.”
One of the soldiers spoke. “You that warrior queen they talk about?”
She showed a wolfish grin and pulled out her white sword.
“Reckon you are,” the soldier said. “I’m happy to fight at your side. Cac!”
The soldier staggered backward, waving his sword. Inglena knew, even before she turned.
Goblins were on the wall.
A goblin landed almost in the center of the wall and its momentum nearly carried it over. When it turned, it turned away from her. Inglena sprinted, sword gripped tight in her right hand. All she could hear was her own breath, steady and swift. She saw the goblin, saw a civilian only a few feet away from it. Where had he come from? He was just turning away from the wall’s edge. She was close enough she could see his eyes go big.