Goblins at the Gates Read online

  “Generals never are.”

  Julian was too irritated to respond. Instead, he kicked at his horse, which took off at such a pace, he had to fight to bring it back under control. By the time he did, he saw the problem.

  People.

  People were the cause of a great many problems, he reflected sourly. Almost as many as horses.

  These people were locals. Not Thervingians, by the look of them. He saw no evidence of furs or tall hats. These were dressed in brown woolen shifts, men and women alike, with simple rope belts. Dacians, he guessed. They looked poor and dirty and tired … and something else he could not quite identify. They lined the road, jabbering at him, but fell back as he advanced, and he soon reached the head of the column. There he saw the cause of the delay.

  An ox cart was stuck in the road. Around it had gathered several Roman soldiers and ten or so of the locals. All were gesturing and shouting, each in their own language. The cart was sunk up to its axle in a large hole. The ox was lowing, its eyes wild, lurching into the traces without effect.

  One of the soldiers noticed Julian’s approach. As if by magic, the other soldiers looked up and withdrew a few steps, leaving the locals to continue shouting at the ox and each other.

  Marcus Salvius was there. Julian dismounted and went over to him.

  “I see the cart is stuck, First, but why is the Legion stuck? Can’t we simply go around?”

  “We started to, General,” Marcus said, “but some of them ran out to us and seemed to be pleading. I can’t be sure; I don’t speak the language and they don’t appear to speak Latin. I thought I should wait for the commander to decide what to do.”

  Julian was sure that was a reproach for not being where he was supposed to be.

  “What do they want?”

  “Can’t say. Help with the cart, I suppose, but they started yelling when we did that.”

  Julian felt frustration building. Did a Legion have only one brain?

  “I’m sure there is someone in the XII who can speak their language. Please find him, Marcus, and bring him forward.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll find a translator,” Marcus said. But he did not leave. Instead, he spoke to one of his men, who hurried off.

  Julian looked around. More locals were gathering.

  They were all dressed in a similar fashion, in brown tunics that hung just below the knee. On their heads they wore dome-shaped hats with a narrow brim. Their skin was only a shade lighter than their tunics. Each wore a gray cloak a little longer than the tunic, made of some sort of animal skin. Leggings of a similar sort covered their lower legs, and their shoes were laced up over the leggings.

  Anxiety, that was it. They were anxious, fretful.

  “Where is their village” asked one of the troopers.

  “Looks like they’ve brought it with them,” said Julian.

  It appeared to be so. The villagers were about four hundred in number, young and old, man and woman and child. They had brought their animals as well: goats, pigs, geese, chickens, dogs. Their possessions burdened a ragged collection of carts, two pulled by oxen, the rest by humans, and one by a dog nearly as large as a pony. Julian counted five milk cows, one ancient bull, harrows, plows, axes, scythes, and a dozen other implements. It was very nearly an entire village, minus the buildings.

  And minus the crops, he reflected. Planting season was just arriving. They should be planting the seeds they were now eating. Even war did not cause peasants to do more than hide in the forest until the armies had passed. What could make these people leave at so crucial a time of year?

  “Does any one of you speak Latin?” Julian asked the men.

  They said nothing, only stared.

  The soldier returned with a young man in tow.

  “Here’s a lad, General. Tenna’s his name.”

  “You speak their language, soldier?”

  “I can make it out, sir. My people don’t come from up country, you understand, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Never mind. Just find out who is their head man.”

  Tenna said something to the older men and they turned their attention to Julian.

  “This one, sir.”

  “Tell him we’ll help him get the cart moving.”

  Tenna spoke to the elder. That began an exchange that included Tenna pantomiming how he would push the cart.

  “Sorry, sir. He speaks a sort of Dacian, but strangely. We hardly understand each other.”

  “Did he understand about the cart?”

  “Yes sir.” He paused. “I think so, sir.”

  “Marcus,” Julian said without turning, “get that cart off the road.”

  “Aye, sir.” The Tribune put several soldiers to the task. The mud was so deep they were soon in up to their knees.

  To Tenna, Julian said, “what does the man want from us? Why did he block the Legion?”

  Tenna thought for a moment, then spoke slowly to the elder. The old man likewise spoke slowly in return.

  “Huh,” Tenna said, “he says he wants us to protect them.”

  Julian made a show of looking around the empty landscape.

  “From what?”

  Tenna spoke again. The man broke into a rapid babble accompanied by wild gestures across the river, toward the eastern hills. The other Dacians joined in, all talking at once and pointing eastward. Except some pointed north as well.

  Julian waved an arm. “Quiet!”

  The noise subsided.

  “Explain to the gentleman,” Julian said patiently, “that he has nothing to worry about, but we cannot stay here to protect them. We are headed north.”

  Tenna passed this along, which provoked another round of babbling and gesticulation. The babbling resolved itself into a single word.

  “Cobbel.”

  They said it again, looking impatient.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Tenna said, “it’s not a word I know.”

  “That’s all right, soldier,” Julian said. “Probably their word for a rival tribe, or some such.”

  “Yes sir,” the man said, uncertainly, “as the General says.”

  At this point, the ox gave a loud moan and the cart hauled up out of the hole. The soldiers scrambled out, muddy to the waist.

  “All right,” Julian said. “Let’s get the Legion moving again.”

  Tenna stared at him, eyes wide.

  “Do you have a question, soldier?”

  The man gulped. “The General wants me to give the order to march?”

  “Oh hell and damn,” Julian said. Army protocol. He looked around. “Where’s my First Tribune? Or my Second? Or anybody the hell else who can give an order?”

  “The trumpeters are over there, sir,” the translator said, not meeting his General’s eye.

  “Tell them to sound out. March. Double columns, same as before.”

  “Y-y-yes, sir.”

  The young soldier hurried away. Julian watched as he delivered the message. The youth argued with the trumpeters for a while, then gestured back toward Julian, who nodded. A moment later, the horns sounded March, and Tenna returned.

  Before leaving, Julian had to ask one more question. He posed it via Tenna.

  “Where will you go?” he asked the Dacians.

  They said they were going to Rome, to the Empire. When he asked if they knew the way, they pointed south. Julian shook his head. They wouldn’t be let across. If they managed to pay the fees, they would be rounded up, for they were not Roman citizens. He told them as much.

  They stared at him impassively. It did not matter. They were determined. We cannot stay here, they said, and they repeated that funny word. Cobbel. Why the hell, Julian wondered in deep irritation, couldn’t the rest of the world learn Latin?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Trees and Fog

  Julian woke up early. The dreams had come again, but they were more confusing than ever, dark images that left him discontented, yearning for some sort of action.

  He dressed quickly, told Avitus
to see to breakfast, and left the tent. The air was still, and knee-high fog lay thick on the cold ground. The sun sat orange on the eastern hills. The camp was beginning to stir, mostly cooks and quartermasters, always the first up. He hurried, without really knowing why, along the via secunda toward the eastern gate. East, rather than north, also without really knowing why. Whatever had been pulling him northward now had swung to the east.

  Through the gate he saw a stream, a tributary of the Siret, spilling down from a small valley. It burbled as if glad to be freed at last of the tall, brown hills. He gazed at it and at the valley from which it issued, and it was like staring into a well. He put his hand out to support himself, for he thought he might be falling. The porta guards watched their General, wondering but not speaking. After a time, Julian nodded to them.

  “East,” he said, to no one in particular, then he strode quickly away.

  “What do you suppose that was all about,” said one guard to the other.

  The other only shook his head.

  No one challenged his orders, but there were a good many questioning looks. Avitus, of course, had to say something.

  “East now?” he said as they waited for their mounts to be readied.

  “Toward the sun and a new dawn,” Julian replied. He wanted it to sound jaunty, but it merely sounded pretentious, even to himself.

  “Did those Dacians give you some new information?”

  “Avitus, we’re going east. I’ve given the command. That’s enough for these fine soldiers, let it be enough for you as well.”

  Avitus noted the tightness around Julian’s eyes and did not to pursue it further.

  The Legion left the river an hour later. Julian consulted Marcus and Ennius on their line of march. As usual, Marcus Salvius did not answer directly.

  “Normally, General, I’d say we march straight east. We’d strike the Pyretus River sooner that way.”

  “True,” Ennius chimed in, “but these hills …”

  “Vere, these hills,” Marcus said. “We go up and down these a few times and it will take us twice as long.” He pointed to the hill to their left. “This one’s bare and the horses would be slipping on loose rock. But the next one might be forest. Better footing, but slower going, if you see what I mean.”

  Julian did. The valley floor was narrow, just wide enough to march in a single column, and overrun in places with willow and rowan trees. It was obvious even to Julian that this was a poor route for the Legion, but he was determined to press forward.

  “We’ll stay in the valley, then,” he said, pretending to consider all the factors. “We’re likely to find a pass ahead, soon enough.”

  There was no reason to think this, but both his officers nodded in agreement.

  The weather was cooperative at first, with overcast but rainless skies, and no wind. They made good time, despite the terrain.

  The XII marched on through the deep hills. Men cast glances at their commander, wondering if he was lost, if he had been too proud to ask for a guide. Others said there was no one to ask, for no one lived in this empty land.

  All agreed they were too far north, that the General had overshot and was now cutting east in blind hope of stumbling across any sign of the Thervings. The men watched their officers, to see if they were worried, but the Tribunes took their lead from the First, and his face was as stern and silent as the earth.

  No one sang a marching song, all that gray day. The soldiers worked their way over rocky ground and tough underbrush, and spoke in low tones. At day’s end, the engineers could find no level ground for a proper camp, so the Legion spent the night clinging to the side of one of the interminable brown hills. In the General’s tent, Julian slept well, without dreams.

  The next morning, fog covered the valley, not clearing off until midday. It seemed to dampen sounds and spirits alike. The red cloaks were all packed away, replaced with gray wool, so the Legion became gray forms in a gray formlessness. When blue sky began to appear in the afternoon, it was ringed by thin clouds on every horizon, as if besieged.

  Two more days passed. The fog came and went and came back again. The men remained subdued. They worried to each other about the lack of game, about the heavy morning fog, and about their General who did not seem to know where he was going. Julian felt rather than heard the unrest, but could think of nothing to alleviate it.

  Next morning, the third day, it was almost clear. The clouds were still there, but the sun was a pale yellow disc coming over the high hills. After the midday meal, Julian started forward to ride with the cavalry. He was beginning to think his luck was with him again. Luck had saved him from many a sharp scrape among the taverns and alleys of Constantinople. And when it hadn’t, he knew how to fight his way through. If necessary, he would do so again, he told himself.

  Before he could reach the First Wing, Marcus Salvius hailed him.

  “I don’t care for this sky,” the First Tribune said. “Too little wind. If we get one of those damned winter fogs, we’ll never find our way out of here.”

  “It’s April, Marcus,” Julian said.

  “Spring fog, then,” Marcus said.

  Julian shrugged. “I cannot summon fog, nor can I banish it. If it comes, then it comes.”

  He considered a moment, then added, “we’ll keep the foragers in today, and no scouts. There’s no chance to stray anyway, in these hills.” He smiled, trying to pretend to mock his own decision, but the First Tribune did not react except to say, tersely, “Yes sir.”

  Julian urged his horse forward. Marching with Marcus was too much like work.

  “Salve, Captain Ennius,” he called as soon as he neared the head of the cavalry wing.

  “Salve, General.” Ennius looked skyward. “They say we may get fog later.”

  Julian shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “It’s not a small thing,” Ennius said. “In these valleys, a heavy fog would make it impossible to go on.”

  Julian glanced at Ennius. Was this a sly jab at his decision to come into these hills? But the Captain’s face showed no sign of irony.

  “We’d have to go over the hills, up and down, up and down, instead of winding our way around them. Harder on the men, but we’d still make it,” Julian said.

  “Fog in these lands can come in minutes, and last for days.”

  “In the City,” Julian said, “the weather never stays the same for days. Some breeze comes from a new quarter and shifts the air around.”

  “No monsters in Constantinople?”

  “Not outside the Senate, anyway,”

  Ennius burst out laughing.

  “That’s one reason why I like you, Captain,” Julian said. “You’re the only officer I’ve met who can take a joke.”

  “And you are the only General I’ve met who can make one.”

  “The Empire is such that if I don’t laugh, I have to weep.”

  Julian thought this was both clever and dramatic, and he was disappointed when the Captain failed to respond. He turned to look at Ennius, who had not replied; rather, he was leaning forward, a hand to one ear.

  “What?” Julian said. “What is it?”

  Ennius waved the other hand at Julian, motioning to silence.

  He reined up and sat still. Julian did likewise.

  The rest of the cavalry soon caught them up. With a hand signal, the Captain brought them all to a halt. Then Julian heard hoof beats.

  The valley bent sharply northward here, and the view forward was obscured by the flank of a hill covered with red oak. Through this burst six men on horseback. They looked Thervingian, for their ponies were small and shaggy, and the men wore furs. All were hatless. They rode hard, looking back frequently.

  When they saw the Roman cavalry before them, the men did not pull up. Instead, they swerved to the right, partway up the hill. As they passed, they shouted, and one waved an arm, pointing behind him. Then they were gone.

  “Well, that was interes ….” Julian began, but another Therving came
into view. He was flailing at his horse, which weaved and stumbled as if spent. Even as the Romans watched, the gray pony gave a peculiar, wheezing cry and went down hard, throwing the man to the ground.

  Ennius cursed. Signaling to his men, he hurried over to the fallen horse and dismounted. The man, a few feet away, got to his feet groaning. Julian dismounted as well. He noted a score of cavalry went further up the valley, spread out in formation. He could just see the Legion halt a hundred yards in the other direction. He thought, uncomfortably, that he ought to have issued a command or something. The Legion was reacting without him.

  The fallen rider approached. He was scratched up a bit, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He babbled at Julian.

  “Latin, friend,” Julian said, backing up a step; the man appeared unarmed, but one never knew. The cavalrymen brought their horses nearer.

  The man stopped and blinked stupidly, then he seemed to get his bearings.

  “We must leave,” he said. “Run.” He pointed eastward, then said a final word.

  “Cobbel.”

  Julian shook his head.

  He looked just beyond where the man was standing. The pony was still on the ground, trembling violently. A trooper knelt down. A blade flashed in the wan sunlight, and the trembling ceased.

  Before the Therving could speak again, Captain Ennius came striding up.

  “You wretch,” he snarled, “you’ve killed your horse.”

  The man raised his hands as if to ward off a blow. His Latin failed him, and he began babbling again. Ennius looked at him with contempt.

  “Friend,” Julian said, “cobbel cobbel?”

  The man stopped babbling. He nodded and pointed east again.

  “King Athanaric, is he fighting the cobbel cobbel?”

  The man stood mute. Tears sprang from his eyes, then he uttered an awful cry.

  “The king is dead,” he said between sobs.

  Julian groaned inwardly. To come all this way only to find a dead king.

  “You are sure of this?” he asked.

  The man nodded, his face pale. “All are dead.”

  “What do you mean, all?”