Goblins at the Gates Page 5

  Another deep breath. Clear the head.

  “If there is truth in wine, lord King, what shall we find in your native drink?”

  “Plain speech,” Fritigern said.

  “Well said. I will try to make my own both plain and true.”

  Fritigern raised an eyebrow. “An honest Roman? We might need to have another feast.”

  Julian’s stomach rolled. He wasn’t sure if he could stand another night of smoke and grease and hellish liquor.

  “You are a better commander than the one before,” Fritigern continued. “That one came early and left early. He ate little but drank much. He asked too many questions and gave only vague promises.”

  The king sat erect, leaning slightly toward Julian, who tried to do likewise but suspected he was leaning rather too far.

  “You came late,” Fritigern went on, “but you have stayed late. You eat well and drink better. You have asked no questions and made no promises. So let us now speak together as men.”

  Julian pretended to consider while he drew several deep breaths. He knew his approach; the trick was first to remember it and second to speak it.

  “Very well,” he said, “let us speak plainly about our treaty. What did Neander offer you?”

  “He was never clear. He offered only vague promises of security. He spoke of military service. He spoke of voting but he also spoke of taxes and Roman law. And something about being branded.”

  Julian winced at this. Many soldiers got a tattoo of their legion, but why would Neander mention that? And taxes? Why mention the most burdensome part of citizenship?

  It was time to put money on the table.

  “King Fritigern, Rome offers citizenship for you and all your people.” He waved his arms expansively, then had to pause a few moments to recover his equilibrium. The king should have built a hall that did not spin so readily.

  “You will have live to land on,” he said grandly.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  “You will have land to live on. You, and all your goats.”

  He meant that to sound generous, but instead it made him giggle.

  “Seriously,” he added weakly.

  Fritigern’s smile was predatory. “How much land, Roman? Our flocks need wide pastures. Our horses need grasslands from horizon to horizon.”

  “And you’ll have it!” Julian said, feeling generous. “Thrace and Thessaly have miles of it. Pannonia does too. Or Hispania! Bit of a walk to get there, but it’s fine country for goats. Or sheep. That sort of thing. Horses too—oh, the Spaniards love their horses.”

  “And we would live by our own laws?”

  “Naturally.” Why not, Julian thought. It seemed reasonable. In this haze, everything seemed reasonable. When had it become hazy? Oh wait, it had always been smoky. It must be dark outside by now, but who could tell? The not-very-great Hall was as dark as a cavern. He struggled to get hold of his thoughts, which were scattering like fallen leaves.

  “Our own province, then?” the King said.

  “Eh? Yes, yes,” Julian said, a little annoyed at being interrupted. A small doubt nagged at him that he perhaps did not have the power to give away whole provinces to barbarians.

  “And what does Rome ask of the People in return?”

  The fog of alcohol lifted a bit at that question. He was supposed to be negotiating.

  “Only a small service.”

  One of the clan chiefs emitted a long, melodious belch. Fritigern waited him out. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, as if he did not want to be overheard.

  “What sort of service, and how small shall it be?”

  Julian did not miss the change in tone to wariness.

  “The Emperor Valens has heard of the great prowess of the clans, mighty in battle. If a number of your warriors served as auxiliaries, to defend Rome’s borders, then your people will be given citizenship and a place within the Empire. Perhaps Dacia itself may once again be made a Roman province. Or federated tribe. You, I mean, not Dacia. All the Thervingi.”

  He limped to a stop. Somewhat clumsily, he was trying to retract his earlier offer of Hispania. Curse this barbarian liquor, he thought.

  “How large a number?”

  This was the key. It was going to be a problem, he knew, but there was no way to dodge it, and he was not so sure of his dodging abilities at the moment anyway.

  “Fifty thousand,” he said, silently cursing Neander for ever telling Valens such a number was possible. Even counting women and children there were not fifty thousand here at Oppidum. Even counting the goats.

  Fritigern gazed at him, as expressionless as a lizard. Julian tried hard to return the gaze.

  “Yes,” the king said, “the People have that many. Let us agree to this treaty.”

  Julian blinked, then felt a warm glow of triumph. At least, he felt a warm glow. The king called for another toast and spoke for some time in Therving. Julian grimly took his cup in hand, ready for the next toast, but instead the audience—those who remained awake and aware—reacted strangely. They nodded. They chuckled. They spoke in low tones together and gave the Romans sidelong looks. Julian’s thoughts were running in circles around the word ‘what?’

  “The Getae of course do not have fifty thousand.” Fritigern’s voice was annoyingly clear and steady.

  Had Julian asked a question? He must have asked a question. He was grabbing at thoughts, desperate now, feeling that matters were slipping past him.

  “For so many warriors, you must speak to Grimbeard.”

  This brought toasts, but Julian was in ill humor now and he did not even pretend to drink.

  “Who is Grimbeard?” he managed to ask.

  “Oh, a great king,” Fritigern said, his eyes hard but his mouth smiling. “A very great king. Lord of all the Greuthungs. Athanaric! A most important king, yes. Too important to attend the Festival of the Grass, it seems.” Here Fritigern spat. He was copied by his clan chiefs, several of whom made a bad job of it. “He has many warriors, including some of my own clan chiefs, may their horses sicken and die. They think they will win glory in the Scouring and return to Oppidum to challenge me. Me!”

  Athanaric must have been one of the no-shows, Julian thought. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to follow a line of reasoning, any line. Had Fritigern tricked Neander from the beginning? Maybe he never could have delivered the warriors. Maybe this was all more about feuds between barbarian kings than it was about any treaty with Rome.

  No matter. Fritigern couldn’t deliver on his promises. Fine. Julian couldn’t deliver on his either! He smiled. The king smiled back.

  “Talk to Grimbeard,” he said. “Athanaric himself has forty thousand Greuthung warriors, and my own men make another twenty. Thrasimund has five thousand Taifali—oh, the People have more than enough warriors. If you can persuade Athanaric Grimbeard to your treaty, the rest will follow. You may be certain of it.”

  Julian stared at the king. This was most unfair. He had trouble even following that many sentences; how could Fritigern, who had drunk far more, manage to construct and speak them? Julian made a mighty effort at clarity.

  “Yes,” he said.

  This pleased Fritigern. He shouted and new musicians appeared. And more drink. Later, there were acrobats and wrestlers. There was an even-later, but Julian had to rely on reports from Avitus for that phase of the evening.

  “There was singing.”

  “Singing?”

  “I'm afraid so. They tried to teach you their drinking songs and you tried to teach them marching songs.”

  “You don't say.”

  “I do say. You were all hideous, but you all congratulated each other grandly. I think you were a bit of a favorite, at least among the ones who had not passed out.”

  “Did I?”

  “Did you sing?”

  “Curse you, Avi, did I pass out?”

  “No, master. A lifetime of training has finally paid off. You didn't throw up either. I have to admit you held your o
wn, though at the end you were leaning quite a bit. I wouldn’t have got you this far without help.”

  Only then was Julian aware of his surroundings.

  “Where is 'this far', where are my Tribunes, and who is this?”

  For Julian realized that another man was propping him up, under his right shoulder. He also realized that he had only just now opened his eyes. Had he been walking while unconscious? That would be a first.

  Nothing that his eyes were reporting was making much sense. It was dark, he was sure of that much. He thought someone was waving a torch at him, but the torch was white and he deduced after careful consideration that it was the moon looking at him from someplace or other.

  Probably up.

  “We are going back to camp, at your own insistence. Your Tribunes are passed out in the Great Hall, every one of them. The King gave his assurance they would be undisturbed until morning.”

  Julian paid little attention to Avitus’ report, for he was looking at the man on his right. The fellow was small and was certainly a Therving, but Julian also thought he could see through him, could see the ground right through his body.

  He himself was perfectly clear-headed. In fact, he himself was perfectly clear. He now was seeing right through Avitus, right through his nameless friend, and right through himself. He thought he would continue to see through people in the future, as this seemed to be both natural and useful.

  “This man is a local,” Avitus said, “He offered to help. You were more than I could handle, getting you out of that town.”

  Julian looked at the clear fellow again. He couldn’t see the face; for it was wrapped in furs of some sort. He wondered what sort of fur it was.

  His head began spinning once more, which he thought was quite unfair, given his condition, and there was that white light again. Now it took on shape; not the shape of the moon but the shape of a woman.

  In an instant his perception of the light changed. He was indeed looking at a woman, a woman of extraordinary beauty, and it was she, not the moon, that was the source of the marvelous white light. She was standing on a hill, very far away. Everything was very far away, yet he could see each detail as in a miniature. She stood on a hill with her sword drawn and she was surrounded by danger.

  Although tiny, she was magnificent. Her hair was golden. She wore a garment of white light that revealed every curve of her body while preserving her modesty. Julian decided he was in love with her, because not to fall in love at once with such beauty would be an insult.

  “Go north.”

  A voice spoke clearly, from nowhere at all.

  “But my tent is to the west,” Julian said, “and I really, really want my tent.”

  “Go north. You must save her.”

  And he knew upon hearing those words that this unearthly beauty was in danger, that the danger lay to the north, and that only he could rescue her. This conviction lodged inside his heart like an arrow, and he grabbed at his chest as if wounded.

  He could see her even more clearly now: her white dress shone like the moon. A white cloak billowed; on it were woven complex patterns in green and gold. Her hair was worn loose, it streamed over her shoulders and down her breast, shimmering like water. The white of her clothing was so intense he couldn't see her face, yet he was struck by her beauty. In her right hand was a sword that also shone moon-white.

  Now she was fighting, against overwhelming odds. It was up to him to find her. Only he could save her. The thought came to him that she was not merely alone, but cast out.

  “Go north.”

  He stumbled, and he found himself lying on cold, damp earth, staring at a white light. It didn’t have blonde hair, so he was fairly sure it was the moon and not the woman. Moments later, he was walking again. He found this interesting because he had just been lying on his back and he knew perfectly well he could not walk while on his back. And there was Avitus, helping him along, and the other fellow too. For a moment, Julian imagined they were all three staggering back from the Inn of the White Dog after a long night of gambling and drinking. But no matter how dark and threatening the back alleys of Constantinople, they were as nothing to this dreary moor fit only for snakes and wolves.

  Ah, that was it! Wolves!

  “Right Avi?”

  “Right what?”

  “Wolf pelts.”

  “Sure. Wolf pelts. Steady now.” Avitus took a firmer hold on his master.

  Julian felt that Avitus should pay closer attention to details such as the costuming of barbarians, but the world swirled about him again and that light rose again before him. He decided that Avitus was being deliberately cranky and was probably drunk.

  He fell again.

  “Whoa,” said Avitus, “haste is good, but let's work together, eh?”

  The ground was cold. Julian looked up and saw only scrub grass and charcoal darkness. He looked around and saw only Avitus – the barbarian in the wolf pelts was gone. Julian got to one knee; Avitus helped him up.

  “Wheredhego?”

  “Eh?”

  “Where’s the man. Did he go away? Go back to Oppi … op … doppi … that town.”

  “Only a little further, master. That man left, refused to go near the camp and pretended not to understand. I’ll get you back to that horrible camp, in that horrible tent, on that horrible cot. Then we can ….”

  But that was too many sentences and Julian lost the thread. He concentrated on moving. Get to the camp. Sleep. A rough night, taken all together.

  A thought whispered through his brain: go north. He was too tired to pursue it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cobbel Cobbel

  When Julian woke the next morning, he felt as if Death were pounding nails into his skull.

  “Avi,” he muttered, “where are we?”

  “In Hell, master,” Avitus shouted back in a whisper.

  “I thought so. If anyone comes, Avi, kill them for me.”

  Julian started to turn over, but his head throbbed even more violently, so he remained lying on his side staring at the back of his eyelids. His entire body ached, distant sounds assaulted his ears, his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and something nearby smelled awful. Within this sensory assault, something sat unmoving. It was a sensation of need that made his immobility feel offensive, a kind of truculent madness. The need was sometimes on his heart, sometimes in his gut. It was formless but urgent, and it had a name.

  North.

  He wanted to be left alone, but the feeling prowled his insides. He could not remember why this word was so meaningful and he did not really want to know. He wanted only to crawl into a dark hole of peace and silence. He feared the soldiers outside would demand he rise from the dead.

  But no one came. Gaius Ennius, Marcus Salvius, and the rest of the officers dragged themselves into camp over the course of the morning, but otherwise the camp was mostly silent for the day. One of the great strengths of a Roman legion is that it can function on routine, even in the absence of officers. On this day, the Legio XII Heraclea demonstrated its Roman qualities. Its officers slept and groaned, while its soldiers went about the Legion’s business.

  By evening, a few of the officers were stirring. They ate sparingly, cursed softly, and asked after one another. Marcus Salvius made discreet inquiries about the General and was relieved to find he was both alive and not likely to come out until next morning. Much ill will was directed toward Thervingian liquor.

  Julian did manage to give out one command: the Legion was to go north. Marcus noted this order with surprise, but as surprise still made his head hurt, he decided not to think about it just yet.

  The next morning dawned as dim and dismal as the previous. Most of the officers had shaken off the effects of the Festival of the New Grass, though Rufus Panneus, Tribune of the Fourth Cohort, was still wretchedly ill. Widespread opinion agreed that Panneus had a poor constitution and was a brass-bound fool to have drunk so much.

  As early as he dared, Marcus cal
led on his General. He remembered the order from the day before, and knew it could not be executed right away. He wondered what sort of high-born fit the commander was likely to throw.

  Avitus showed him into the tent. Somewhat to his surprise, Marcus found Julian alert and studying a map.

  “Good morning, Marcus Salvius.” Julian said. “You look perfectly awful.”

  Marcus accepted this without expression.

  “How go the preparations?”

  “We’re still preparing, sir.” Marcus stopped, frowned, then started again. He drew himself up. Of their own accord, his hands clasped behind his back, and his feet stepped apart, shoulder width. He spoke like a lawyer arguing his first case in court.

  “I have concerns, sir, about going further into Dacia.”

  “Concerns?”

  Marcus set his jaw.

  “Yes, sir, General, sir.”

  Julian looked back down at his map. “Go ahead. Speak plainly.”

  “There’s unrest in the north, sir. Captain Ennius spoke to you about this on your first day of command.” He hesitated a little. “Perhaps the General does not recall.”

  “I recall. Reports from the north. I said we should avoid going north.”

  “Yes sir. A good plan, sir, if I may say.”

  “Of course you may say. I just said you may.” Julian took a breath. “But,” he went on, “you have not yet said why.”

  “Yes, sir. Er, no, sir.” Marcus looked down at his feet then up again. “The XII isn’t worried about unrest, sir, but we don’t know its nature or its extent. We might be marching into a petty squabble or into the middle of a war.”

  “You don’t think it’s a squabble.”

  “The signs point to something more serious. We’ve lost two scouts. We saw refugees last year, but we’re seeing many more now. Then there’s this Scouring. I’ve never heard the term before, but whatever it is, it’s big enough to pull away King Athanaric and most of King Fritigern’s clan chiefs. It’s all risk to the XII and no benefit that I can see.”