Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  “It is easier to be a great man's soldier, Marcus Salvius, than to be a great man's son,” Julian said, looking the Tribune in the eye.

  “As the General says,” Marcus said, stone-faced.

  Julian debated pursuing the matter. All his life he had lived in his father’s shadow. He had spent most of his time trying to get out into the sun.

  “Let's change the subject,” Julian said briskly. “Something more cheerful, like pestilence, or the virtues of Senators.”

  “Isn’t the one the result of the other,” Avitus asked brightly.

  The Tribune’s head snapped around.

  “My … adjutant … has an odd sense of humor,” Julian said. “I invite you to ignore him. I often do.”

  Avitus mouthed “adjutant?” but Julian merely grinned back at him.

  At the principium he met the command staff, which included various standard bearers, the Legion’s quartermaster, and a young man who was introduced before the others.

  “This” Marcus Salvius said, “is Gaius Herennius Actius Pulcher, captain of the cavalry.”

  Julian stood before a man with blond hair cut long, and a smile that was just safely short of a smirk. He had the easy stance of the cavalry officer. The voice of Julian’s father came unbidden into his memory: cavalry men think they’re better than everyone else, but don’t you believe it. Still, there was something in the man’s casual arrogance Julian found appealing.

  “Hello Gaius Ennius. I assume all is well with you and your cavalry.”

  “Salve, General sir. All is not well, I must admit.”

  This caught Julian off guard.

  “Not well? How?”

  “There are reports, sir, from my scouts.”

  The First Tribune frowned briefly at the Captain of the Cavalry, but said nothing.

  “Reports, you say. Tell me, what do the reports report?” Julian deliberately did not look at Marcus.

  “Sir, we have for some time been hearing strange stories from the north, about invaders. I have sent scouts and they return with these stories.”

  “We are familiar with the tales, back in the City,” Julian said. “But do you take them seriously? We’re among barbarians, after all. They do love their stories.”

  “Yes sir, but there’s more. Two of my scouts are missing. Two of my best.”

  Julian considered this for a moment. One missing was not odd, given the life of a scout, but two missing in the same place was another matter. Still, this was a side issue.

  “Strange reports?”

  “From the north, sir.”

  “Well, then, Captain,” Julian said, “we must by all means avoid the north, eh?” He ignored the quick frown that flitted over the Captain’s face.

  “As the General says.”

  “Besides, I’ll be meeting with the King soon and then we’ll all be headed home again. At the very least, you won’t lose any more scouts.”

  Ennius looked at Marcus in surprise.

  “You haven’t told him?”

  Another missing piece was about to drop into place, Julian thought. He didn’t much like the XII Heraclea so far. Its officers were too secretive.

  Marcus spoke briskly, as if giving a military report, looking at a spot somewhere over Julian’s shoulder.

  “The Festival of the New Grass, as the Thervingi call it. All the tribes gather here, worship their gods, make new laws, render justice, settle debts. The King will stay, but the rest will scatter for the summer, once it ends.”

  “Fascinating,” Julian said, not at all fascinated.

  “Today is the final day of the Festival, sir.”

  Julian cursed—a dockside curse, not becoming of a Roman noble. The men blanched in surprise.

  “Get me to the King, First. Today.”

  He sounded as severe as he could, but he knew it was his fault. That week spent gambling in the bathhouses at Duros was suddenly a bitter memory. Had he waited too long? The thought gnawed at his gut that because of his gambling, his foot-dragging, he might actually fail.

  “No,” he told himself. “I can’t fail. I’m good at getting people to agree with me. And these barbarians will be an easy mark.”

  The previous commander, Neander, had made wild claims to the Emperor but had failed to deliver even one warrior. Now it was Julian’s turn, and he would emerge from this brown land triumphant. It was not too late.

  It couldn’t be.

  He met more officers—the Legion’s standard-bearer, its aequilifer, who carried the eagle, the quartermaster, the chief of engineers, and so on. Every one of them had to give a report. It was all just noise to him. All he wanted was to get away from officers and reports, to get away from the Legion itself.

  When a soldier arrived to say that a delegation from the barbarians had arrived, Julian was prepared to promote him on the spot.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We Are Take You

  A few minutes later, a group of six men approached. They were all sturdy sorts, armed with axes and clubs, and clothed in bulky furs of brown and gray. Each wore an exceedingly tall fur hat that seemed ready to pitch over at the least movement. They swaggered as they passed through the Roman camp, glaring at anyone who made eye contact with them.

  “They seem friendly,” Avitus said.

  “Quiet, Avi.”

  One, whose hat was white ermine, spoke from behind an enormous black beard. “Hail Romans. King Fritigern greets at all with you.”

  Julian suppressed a smile at the poor grammar. They were barbarians, after all.

  “I am named Syragius. We are take you.”

  Julian looked at Avitus, who shrugged. They'd had grander greetings at dockside taverns.

  “You are take us where, exactly?” Julian said.

  The man pointed toward the town. “The Great Hall. The King of All Tribes sits there.”

  Julian pretended to consider. Marcus looked anxious, but Julian only winked at him.

  “Marcus Salvius, please assemble my tribunes, and bring the standard-bearer as well. I want to make a good impression.”

  “Yes, sir,” but Marcus did not move.

  “Is there something else?”

  “I … right now, sir?”

  “We don’t want to keep these fine gentlemen waiting, do we? Not after such a lovely invitation.”

  Marcus scowled without scowling. “No, sir,” he said, “at once, sir.”

  The hesitation was too much for Julian. He bade the delegation wait, then told Marcus to step into his tent.

  “Is there a problem, First? Because you don’t seem happy and that would mean there’s a problem and I don’t want there to be a problem.”

  Marcus hesitated.

  “Speak up and speak quickly.”

  “Sir,” the tribune rumbled in his low voice, “we’ve never brought the other officers into negotiations. I don’t mean to question your decision, General, but …”

  “Noted. The fact that Neander did not bring along his officers is good reason for us to do just that, don’t you think? Don’t answer.” He turned to Avitus.

  “Dress in our best, Avi, the play is about to begin. With luck and a bucket of wine, I’ll have this treaty in hand before sunrise. Be sure to put the phalerae on my breastplate. They’re my father’s medals but they won’t know that. All barbarians are impressed by gold. Oh, and that little pouch we brought with us.”

  Then he turned back to the tribune.

  “I’ve never met this king, Marcus, but I know this much: barbarians judge a man in part by the men around him. If Neander was going up there alone, then to them he obviously wasn’t very important. I intend to be seen as important.”

  Marcus’ eyes widened, just slightly. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “We’ll do this right, Marcus,” he assured him. “I’ll flatter the king and extol the virtues of Rome, which is to say I shall lie. We’ll get our agreement and the Emperor will get his warriors and all will be well. We’ll have food and drink, at the very lea
st. Let us enjoy ourselves!”

  The First Tribune said “yes sir” and showed no signs of enjoying any of it.

  “Listen,” Julian went on, “you don't have to do anything except eat and drink and look Roman—you know, the Roman officer look: that stern, dour face, …” he peered at Marcus, “… oh wait, you're doing it already. Fine job! Now get everyone ready, quick as you can. Dismissed.”

  He was feeling in a better mood. He would meet with this barbarian king, settle the terms of the treaty, and head back to the City well-protected by his victories, and this dismal episode in his life would be over. He could scarcely wait. He chatted merrily with Avitus as he was dressed.

  Marcus did his job quickly and well. The staff kept the Therving delegation occupied by offering them wine, and they had downed only two bowls each when the Tribunes arrived. Along with them were four other soldiers, the Standard Bearer, Captain Ennius, and two others. Julian looked them over and nodded.

  “My twelve lictors,” he said.

  No one responded.

  He turned to Avitus. “Well, I thought it was funny,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s not the time for joking,” Avitus said.

  Julian knew perfectly well it wasn’t, but he frowned at his slave anyway, because he couldn’t frown at the soldiers.

  They set out toward the town, twelve Romans clad in scarlet and six Thervings clad in fur, and one Scythian slave in plain brown. They went at a brisk pace, for the air was still cold under masses of gray clouds. At least it was not snowing, Julian thought. He would take small victories until larger ones offered.

  No proper sort of road offered a way to the town, so they made their way across scrub grass, weaving around pools and tramping through half-frozen puddles. As they got closer, climbing the hill, they had to make their way among the black Thervingian tents. The tents bore clan signs woven in white—some in abstract shapes, while others showed animals or weapons. The tents were grouped in circles, as few as four and as many as a dozen, sharing a common fire pit. People huddled around the fires or stood in small groups, not talking much, mostly just staring at the red-cloaked Romans marching past. Here and there someone called out, whether begging or shouting in anger, Julian couldn't tell. The words sounded harsh, but all the barbarian tongues sounded harsh, full of clacks and barks. Even more than in the camp, he felt he was in alien territory.

  As they emerged from the tangle of tents, the escort kept walking, but Julian stopped at a sight that aroused his curiosity. Eight men were piling wood around a heap of what looked like belongings—a dismantled tent, furs, ropes, even tools. They worked quickly and in silence, their breaths sending out clouds of steam as they moved about their business. One of their number was singing or chanting. From time to time he rapped a staff on the ground or poked it at the sky. The other Romans came up and stood watching the proceedings with their General. The escort doubled back.

  “What’s going on?” asked Ennius. Julian glanced his way.

  “Not sure, Captain,” Julian said, “See that one fellow? I think he’s a priest of some sort. He’s been chanting and waving that stick around. Also, no one else is coming anywhere near. They’re all pretending they don’t see.”

  When Julian spoke, the priest stopped his chant and glared at the Romans. Julian grinned at him. There was something about the man’s behavior that grated on him. Another man spoke and the priest resumed his chant. Soon enough, the stacking was complete and two men took up a bucket and threw pitch over the pile. The priest turned and glared harder at the Romans, but Julian held his ground. All the men started to chant now, then the priest took up a torch and set the whole thing alight. Julian watched as the flames began to consume tent and possessions. Smoke billowed into the sky and still no one came near the place; only the chanting men, and the Romans with their escort, stood watching.

  Julian asked their guide what was the meaning of the ceremony.

  Syragius scratched at his forehead. “Rixen,” he said.

  “Rixen?”

  “I do not know a word,” the Therving said. “This family was … filth. Um, disease … no, … dirty …” he paused and spread his hands, “… rixen.”

  “Polluted?” Julian offered, “impure?”

  Syragius shrugged. “Filth.”

  “So everything is burned. And the family? Where are they?”

  “Exiled.”

  Julian nodded: that made sense. Rome knew the practice of exile. In fact, its use spoke well of these people. In many tribes, the unclean were simply killed.

  “Sorcery!” Syragius suddenly cried.

  “Did you find your word?”

  Syragius nodded, grinning inside his beard.

  “Rixen must mean sorcery,” Julian said to Marcus, a little unnecessarily. He turned to the guide. “So, a different matter than I had guessed. Sorcery is illegal in Rome as well.”

  “Rixen,” Syragius repeated, uncertainly. “A person?”

  “Ah, ‘sorcerer’ is the word you want.”

  “Sorcery-er.”

  “Close enough. The father? Or the mother?” Julian was curious to see if the famous barbarian equality toward women extended to crime and punishment.

  “No,” Syragius said, “was the boy.”

  “Boy? Do you mean their son?”

  “Yes, I mean.”

  “How old?”

  “How? Boy is young, not how old.”

  “How many years is the boy?”

  A shrug. “Ten, maybe.”

  “Are you telling me that the whole family was banished because of a mere child?”

  Syragius nodded enthusiastically. Julian glared at the men around the fire. They were still chanting. From time to time the priest threw something into the fire that caused a flurry of sparks and the chant pitched up in tone. A few minutes later, the pile shifted and collapsed a bit, causing more sparks to fly outward and upward, sending the priest scuttling back to a safer distance.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Julian declared. Syragius nodded and headed along the road.

  “Sir,” Marcus said quietly after the barbarian had moved ahead, “how does a child of ten learn sorcery?”

  “I don’t know, First,” Julian said without turning around. “My guess is that he doesn’t, but let’s keep our judgments private for now, eh?”

  The Tribune nodded, but he looked back at the burning remains of a family’s possessions and his face was dark.

  They were already close to the town wall, which wasn’t much of one by Roman standards. Constantinople had walls thirty feet high, built wide enough for soldiers to pass in both directions from one tower to the next. The walls of Hadrianopolis were almost as grand, though not so tall. Even Duros had a stone wall. This barbarian so-called town could do no better than to stick tree trunks into the ground, pack them with dirt, and call it a wall. One good fire would bring it down. At its tallest the town wall was no more than fifteen feet high, much of it closer to ten feet, and the gate had but one tower. At best, the wall might keep out wolves.

  “No parapets,” Julian said.

  “Excuse me, General?”

  “There are no parapets, First. Defenders can be placed only on the tower, and an enemy could scale these walls almost anywhere. That means the town is defended not so much by its wall as by its army. Sally out and kill the enemy, and hope you don't lose. No long sieges for the Thervingi.”

  Julian hoped this implied the Thervingi were the fearsome warriors Emperor Valens expected them to be, but he was skeptical.

  They passed through the gate and into the town proper. To their left, just inside, was a circle of chestnut trees around an inner circle of stones; not very big ones, nothing on the scale of other stone circles he'd heard of. These were simply nondescript, smooth rocks, each about the size of a sheep's head. He supposed it might be a shrine of some sort, though he could see no statue or totem. Maybe they conducted sacrifices there, he thought. Maybe human sacrifices – he couldn't resist a lurid touch on th
e scene, especially when the rest was so dreary.

  At least the town had buildings instead of tents.

  “These people really like roofs,” Avitus said.

  “It’s for the snow, Avi,” Julian said.

  The buildings—they seemed rather large to be houses—were long, narrow structures with steeply-pitched roofs reaching nearly to the ground. The thatching was heavy, a foot thick, and the whole roof sat on big tree stumps spaced every ten feet or so. All were built into the hill, facing down the slope, so that their back end was dug into ground and the far end protruded out into empty air, supported by pillars. There were no proper streets anywhere, just spaces between buildings, and through them the party wound its way in and out.

  The place was not as crowded as Julian had thought it would be, almost as if the city were for the privileged, and ordinary folk had to camp outside. The denizens appeared no better dressed though, wrapped in furs and regarding the Romans with open stares. They looked ragged, as if they had fallen on hard times.

  “These are the warriors Valens wants?” Ennius asked.

  “They are, Captain. The Emperor has met them before, you know.”

  Ennius chuckled. “Aye to that, General, and they likely haven’t forgotten.”

  Eight years previously, the barbarians had refused to pay tribute to the Empire. Before marching off to fight the Persians, Emperor Valens had given the Thervings a lesson in civic responsibility. It was the sort of lessons barbarians seemed to need from time to time, ever since Julius Caesar was conquering them, four hundred years ago.

  Syragius steered them toward one building that stood at the apex of the hill.

  “That are the Great Halls. We are going all inside of us there.”

  The Romans looked at the building, which was larger than the others but was otherwise of the same construction. It was easily a hundred feet long. Its wood was unpainted and its entryway was a low, roofless porch.

  “The Great Hall of the King is not all that great, is it?” Avitus said quietly.

  “Hush, little bird, and keep your beak closed. It’s time to get Valens his army.”