by Ellis Knox
“We must hurry,” he said, finding his voice again. “We have to be in place by dawn. It’s time for each of us to see to our own tasks.”
Inglena stood; the others did likewise. They all looked at Marcus. He scratched at his beard.
“I suppose I’m to say some words of encouragement, but I can’t. I am no orator. I don’t see anything encouraging. We must defend the Empire’s capital, that’s all. We cannot surrender and I will not run. However dark and hopeless, this is our path. Fight well and let the gods decide. The Empire abides, even if we do not.”
The Grand Chamberlain hauled himself to his feet and took Marcus by the hand. He wished him good fortune, and left. Tykonos did likewise, adding he would see Marcus later on the docks. Thrasimund clapped him on the shoulder, but said nothing. That left Inglena.
“Tell me again about Hispania,” she said. Her voice sounded as lazy as a river in summer. They kissed, quick and passionate, then she too left.
He watched her go into the night and it was like watching his own soul walk away. He felt empty inside, as hollow as a bowl. It felt good, strangely; to be cold as steel, dead to the world. Only the fire of battle could heat him again, only blood could revive him. Bring me the enemy, he thought. Kill or die, it was all the same. Nothing would matter unless he might see her again. Then the sun would shine. Then he would breathe. Until then, he was cold steel.
No hint of dawn disturbed the night when Marcus reached the docks with the Legion. Tykonos met him there, attired in a fine black robe with silver threads embroidered. His round, pale face was like a moon set upon some dewy field.
“Marcus Salvius,” he said, approaching. “I must go help the barbarians, but I wanted to see you one more time, to wish you all good fortune.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said, “and good fortune to you as well. The City must hold, no matter what we do out there.”
“The City will hold, First Tribune, because of what you will do out there.” He made a gesture of dismissal. Rings sparkled blue and red by the torchlight.
“There now,” he said brusquely, “I’ve said my farewell. Three ships will hold you. Yours is the forward one. Trust my sailors; they can sail a ship even in the dark.” He laughed at some private joke.
Tykonos was just about to leave when a man hurried up to him and spoke into his ear. The innkeeper’s face turned to astonishment.
“Bring her here,” he said.
The man whispered something more. Tykonos scowled. “Bring both of them, then!” He turned to Marcus. “You should hear this, too, Tribune.”
Marcus barked orders at his men to hide his impatience. This was not the time for delays.
A minute later, the man returned. Behind him came a young girl and an enormous dog.
“Cac,” Marcus exclaimed. It was not so much that he was looking at a Roman war dog, it was that the dog bore having the little girl’s hand hold its collar.
“Salve,” Tykonos said, bowing formally. “My name is Tykonos, a friend of Julian. And this is Marcus Salvius, who served with him in the army. I’m told you have a message?”
“Where did this come from?” Marcus asked. He was too astounded to manage more.
“Yes,” the girl said. Her wide, dark eyes reminded Marcus suddenly of Inglena.
“What’s your name, girl,” Marcus said, more harshly than he intended.
“Petra,” she said. She certainly looked at him boldly enough.
Tykonos knelt beside the girl and put his arm around her.
“How did you come by that dog?”
She put her hand on the dog’s head. “His name is Bucephalus. He’s mine,” she said. “I found him and he found me.”
Marcus snorted. The girl scowled.
“Petra, dear girl, tell the First Tribune here your message. Say it plainly and clearly and do not be afraid of him. He is not so fierce as he looks.”
Petra’s chin came up. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said.
Tykonos smiled. “Of course you aren’t. You are a very brave young woman.”
Marcus looked to Tykonos. “What’s all this about?”
“I have a message from …” she paused. Her face tightened and she spoke carefully. “… Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the Legio XII Heraclea, to the Prefect of the City.”
Having got that far, she gave a nod of satisfaction. Marcus stared at her, unable to speak. He looked more carefully at her. When had she met Julian? No, that was impossible.
“I speak with Julian’s voice,” she was still reciting from memory, “to say, ‘I am going to kill the Gniva. Hold out. I have a plan. Do not yield the City. I have an extra card in my hand.’”
Again she nodded.
“That’s all,” she said. She dropped her eyes and petted her dog.
It took several heartbeats for Marcus to recover his voice. He knew at once the message was real, however incredible it seemed.
“Who is this girl?” he said. “Where did she come from, how did you find her?”
“You do not question the message?” Tykonos asked, smiling.
“Those are Julian’s words,” Marcus said. “No one else would speak in that way.”
“That is what I thought as well. My men here just fished her out of the Golden Horn. She was in a coracle, if you can believe it.”
“Believe what?”
Inglena’s voice broke in as she came striding onto the dock.
“Inglena, what are you doing here?” Marcus had a distinct sensation of events running like sand between his fingers.
“My people are on the other dock,” she said, “but no one will do anything. They say Tykonos must come. The horses are a problem.”
“I was afraid of that,” Tykonos said.
“But what is this girl?” Inglena asked.
Marcus and Tykonos filled her in quickly. Her face went from disbelief to astonishment to worry within the space of two minutes.
“Julian alive?” she said, incredulous.
“Seemingly,” Marcus said.
“I would believe it of no one other than Julian,” Tykonos said. “But Marcus, you do not seem so pleased.”
“No. He will die.”
“You thought him dead already. Besides, he has a secret card,” Tykonos said.
“He always thinks that,” Marcus said.
“So we must kill the Gniva quickly,” Inglena said. She smiled and sounded almost eager. “Marcus, this is why I have the white sword from my father. For this day. For this deed. I will kill the Gniva and save Julian.”
Tykonos stood and spoke to the girl. “You and Bucephalus come with me. I shall take care of you.”
Petra looked up at the innkeeper in wonderment.
“Inglena, let us hurry. Your people need to be on board those ships soon or they’ll never reach the shore in time. Dawn is coming.”
Again Marcus had to watch Inglena walk away into the night. He kept his lips compressed tightly for fear he would cry out. He had been ready to die. Had been ready to know Inglena had died. It was cruel, now, to offer hope.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Sixth Hill
Julian and Avitus moved through the suburbs of the City, slipping from one hiding place to the next, working toward the Sixth Hill. The old farms from pre-Constantinian days were largely gone, replaced by residences, apartment blocks, and shops. In each hiding place, Avitus released his hold on Julian so he could rest, even if only a little. It was getting harder and harder to keep the veil of invisibility drawn over them.
The streets and open spaces were thick with goblins, but as the sun rose, most of these left amid clacks and thuds. Julian and Avitus hid in a leather shop for over an hour as this migration went by.
They spoke little, and then only in whispers. Neither of them knew if goblins could hear well or poorly. It was not the sort of thing to test.
After an hour of waiting, they judged it time to go on. Avitus took hold of Julian’s wrist, and they eased out the front door.
This was the worst moment, stepping into open view, worrying that any slip might reveal themselves. It had happened before, and Avitus was much more tired now. After the third pack of goblins had passed them without noticing, Julian relaxed a little.
They kept to shadows as much as they could. Julian could not explain exactly why. He simply felt exposed walking in full daylight.
Close to walls was safer too—less likely to run into someone. Goblins hurried in every direction. Julian’s head turned with each step or two as he tried to look everywhere at once.
Despite his best efforts, they had several near misses and one outright collision. A goblin changed directions suddenly and bowled them over. They went down together, but Avitus kept his grip on Julian’s wrist. The two men froze in place, crouching. The creature stopped and turned, raising its muzzle, swaying. After a moment, it bounded away.
“Perhaps,” Julian whispered as they got up, “they run into things often.” He looked at Avitus, expecting to see a smile or at least a grimace, but the man was pale, his face slack.
“Come on, Avi. A little further, then we can rest a bit.”
They stopped further up the hill, in the courtyard of an apartment building. It was small and dirty, but it concealed them from the street. Jars and baskets were stacked on the far side. Once out of sight of the street, Avitus let go of Julian and slumped to the ground.
He was mumbling as he sat. Julian sat beside him and put his hand on his brow. It was deathly cold, yet slick with sweat.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Quiet, little bird,” Julian whispered, “don’t get us killed with apologies. Here, drink.”
He could get Avitus to take only a swallow.
“I can’t keep on,” Avitus said, too loudly. Julian put a hand over his mouth.
“Quiet!” he whispered fiercely, but Avitus was close to raving.
“It gets harder every time. I don’t even know how to do it. We’re trapped here.” He struggled to get up but couldn’t do it. He looked at Julian with wild eyes. “When they come, you must kill me quick. Say you will. Don’t let them….”
The sudden effort was too much, and he sagged back.
“I will not,” Julian said, thoroughly alarmed. If Avitus began raving, they were sure to be found. “It’s the slave who should kill his master first, then take his own life.”
The absurdity made Avitus’ eyes focus.
“You freed me,” he said.
“Not legally,” Julian replied, “and anyway you refused it.”
Avitus took a deep, shuddering breath.
“My mistake,” he said, then closed his eyes. “Sleep now.”
Julian’s own breath caught. The man was nearly used up. But soon he would have to do still more. Soon they would make the last push. How long would they need to be unseen? Hours, most likely. Longer than Avi had ever managed, even when he was strong.
It was hopeless.
Avitus’ head drooped on his chest; his hands lay at his sides like fallen birds. Julian stood over him.
He’s used up, he thought. I should let him rest, but the hours slip away. That breach in the wall means the City will soon fall. How soon?
Julian knelt. Avitus did not stir.
“Avi,” he said softly, “time to go.”
Avitus’ head came up. He blinked, frowning. “What?” he asked, confused.
“Time to go, Avi.”
Comprehension came. Avitus’ shoulders sagged. He nodded haltingly, the way an old man does. Julian held out a hand.
“Sure,” Avitus said, “Time.”
Julian hauled him up, supporting him until he got his feet under him. After a moment, Avitus nodded.
“You all right?” Julian asked, then felt foolish for asking.
“Sure,” Avitus said. “I’m positively sunny.”
Strength through sarcasm, Julian thought. I’ll take it.
Julian picked up the pack; Avitus did not ask for it. At the edge of the courtyard, they paused. This building stood atop a low rise. Below them the ground dipped, ran level for a hundred yards, then angled up onto the flanks of the Sixth Hill.
“Get us across the valley,” Julian said. “Once we reach those buildings,” he pointed to a row of shops, “we can take stock, rest, maybe eat.”
“And then?”
“Then … then we get as far as we can.”
“The top of the hill,” Avitus said. “Kill it today, maybe.”
“One step at a time.” Julian wished Avitus would not talk; the man’s voice trembled with every word. Don’t try to be brave, little bird.
Avitus put his hand on Julian’s arm, took a step, then took another.
They crossed the valley without incident, through small gardens and little orchards of orange and lemon. Not many goblins roamed; Julian supposed they were all at the wall. Mostly his attention was on Avitus.
His face seemed to draw tighter as they walked, and his grip on Julian’s arm grew lighter. They moved carefully over rough ground. The fields were scarred, harrowed by goblin claws. By the time they began to climb the Sixth Hill, Avitus was stopping every twenty or thirty steps. Julian whispered encouragement when they stopped, but after the third time, he was unsure if Avitus even heard him.
They reached a road, normally hard-packed this time of year but now churned into a dusty powder. The first of the buildings lay ahead. Lemon trees lined the way, heavy with the sweet-smelling fruit. Some of the trees showed ugly gashes and broken branches. One branch lay at hand, and Julian guided Avitus off the road to grab a couple of lemons from it, which he put into his pack.
That was lucky, for even as he was picking up the lemons, a pack of goblins came up the road from behind. He held tight to Avitus as the goblins bounded past. They had hardly gone by when Avitus gave a small sigh and collapsed to the ground. His hold on Julian was broken. They were visible again.
Julian spun in place, trying to see in every direction at once. Goblins bounded in the distance, some at the top of the hill, and many more off toward Constantinople, which was hidden by the shoulder of the hill. His heart leaping, Julian scooped Avitus up in his arms. Without hoping they would make it, but refusing to give up, Julian set out for the nearest building, about thirty yards away.
The Scythian grew heavier with every step, but they reached the buildings without incident. Julian turned into the first place he came to, a shop.
The door of the shop lay on the ground where goblins had smashed it. The interior was torn up, with debris everywhere and long gouges in wood and wall. Julian leaned on the door jamb, then started to set Avitus down. But his strength was gone and Avitus fell to the floor like a sack of grain. Julian dragged him into the shadows, over to the far wall.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw they were in a needlemaker’s shop. Lengths of wire lay on the ground, along with hammers, files, clippers and tongs. Nothing in the jumble of wood and metal was likely to attract the interest of goblins. He hoped.
“We’ll be safe here for a while, Avi,” Julian said, trying to sound reassuring.
Avitus barely nodded.
“Wake up a little, will you? You should eat.”
Avitus mumbled with eyes closed, “Time to go.”
“No, not time to go. Time to eat.” Julian opened the pack that held what remained of their food. He gave a knuckle of cheese to Avitus, who roused enough to put it in his mouth. Julian had to keep prompting him to chew. He fed him a bit of salt pork, which caused Avitus to gag, then he offered the lemon. The juice revived Avitus a little.
“Where?” Lemon dripped from his mouth. Julian wiped it away.
“Hiding,” he said. “Just rest, little bird. We’re almost done.”
“Good,” Avitus whispered. “I’m beginning to get a little tired.”
Tears started in Julian’s eyes. He blamed the lemon.
He managed to swallow the salt pork by alternating with the lemon, until there was no more food. It would be enough. By this tim
e tomorrow, he would have eaten his fill, or he would have no more hunger. The simplicity of this future calmed him. He leaned against the wall. He watched a patch of sunlight crawl eastward, then fade. He faded as well.
A dream awakened Julian. Rullianus had appeared again, but this time it was to tell him to do something. It was a mad sort of thing, but everything was madness now. At least this might save Avitus.
Julian got to his feet as quietly as he could. Avitus lay deep asleep. Julian picked up his sword and went to the door. The golden patch of sunlight was now pale silver. He stepped outside.
The moon hung overhead, nearly full. It washed out Vega’s bright light. Over to the south, Betelgeuse shone bright red, like a lighthouse in the sky. Cassiopeia watched from her throne. The air was heavy with the smell of rotting flesh.
The Horde slept. Their breathing swept through the night air, like the passage of wings. Some goblins lay prone while others leaned against walls, even those of the needlemaker’s shop. Most sat on their tripod of tail and hind legs, as if awake. As if they watched him.
He made his way slowly, trying to keep his footsteps soundless. In places, he had to detour around clumps of goblins packed together so tightly he could not squeeze between. The more they did not stir, the more he dared to move more quickly, and the more he felt watched by lidded eyes. He kept his eyes on the ground before him. Step carefully. Get to the Gniva. Stab it in its sleep. The words from the dream rotated in his head.
He thought about Avitus. Wake up and hide, little bird. The thought returned over and over. He wished he had granted Avitus his freedom. Hardly realizing it, he said the words now, his lips moving silently. His arms stretched out, palms down, then his wrists rotated until his palms were turned skyward—the gesture of manumission.
He crossed a small plaza filled with sleeping goblins, sitting like black statues in the night. Beyond, the road angled left, then right as it climbed. More goblins were there, but he could still slip in between them.
The summit was closer than he would have guessed. In less than an hour of side-steps and tip-toes, he saw the tent up ahead. They had indeed stretched the vermilion cloth over a structure—not a stable but a corral. They must be unable to figure out the supports. The gesture was still unnerving, though, as if the Gniva were somehow declaring himself Emperor. Why else take the symbol?