by Scott Bury
He connected with a smack, but the Roman barely flinched. He grinned and jabbed back, catching Javor on the chest, again striking the amulet. It clinked and a painful grimace crossed the soldier’s face. He shook his hand, looking puzzled, then jabbed again with his other hand, getting the same result. Now he had two sore hands.
He swore and aimed a blow at Javor’s nose, but Javor dodged and struck back at the same time. This time he hit the soldier in the nose, splattering blood across his face.
The Roman stepped back, grinning. “Oh, ho! The brat has some fight in him!”
“What’s the matter with you? It was just a bunch of stupid apples!” Javor shouted, dodging another swing of those heavy fists. This time, a fruit stand shattered and collapsed.
Javor jabbed again and hit the soldier’s arm, then followed up and hit him in the chest. He thought he felt a crack, and the soldier grunted suddenly, doubling forward. But he straightened and closed in, ramming his fists repeatedly into Javor’s chest. Incredibly, Javor barely felt anything. He grabbed the Roman’s head in both hands and pulled down while bringing his knee up to smash his opponent’s face.
The soldier staggered backward, mouth bloody, spitting out teeth. He looked up and grinned hideously, blood streaming down his chin, sticking his tongue out through the gaps in his teeth. He laughed, but he was enraged now.
And from behind him, two more off-duty soldiers ran to his aid, carrying thick clubs. “Hey, Antonio!” called the first as he ran past the soldier and swung his club at Javor’s head.
Without even thinking about what he was doing, Javor checked the soldier’s wrist with his forearm and then kicked. He spun on one foot and kicked with the other; his foot connected with the second soldier in the side and sent him sprawling. But the first was swinging the club again. Why did I leave my sword behind? He dodged, jumped onto a table which immediately collapsed under him, leaving him standing on squashed fruit. A club swung, missed and landed on a table of vegetables, splattering Javor with pulp.
Javor saw a hand with a club and kicked the wrist, then seized the club as it fell. He swung it up at the other club as it came down. They collided with a bone-shaking thud that he felt all the way up his shoulder.
The new soldier was tough and brought the club down hard on the club Javor held. His hand went numb and he dropped the club. The second soldier was on his other side, grabbing at Javor’s left arm. Again instinctively, Javor jumped in the direction the soldier pulled, sending him off-balance. Somehow, Javor ended up standing on the man’s chest. He spun again in time to block the first soldier with a kick to the chin. The man staggered back, tripped and fell on his back.
But Antonio, the trooper who had started the whole fight, was still there, face bloody and hideous, snarling like a hound. Faster than Javor could think, he grabbed the young man by the tunic and pulled him close as his right fist cocked back for a brutal blow to Javor’s face. There was nothing Javor could do—the legionnaire’s grip was like iron.
“Hold! That’s enough!” Manius Meridius strode into the wrecked market, brushed past the protesting locals, took Antonio by the shoulder and wrenched him away like a cat flicking a mouse. “You’ve done enough, Antonio. Go get cleaned up.” He turned to the other soldiers who had come to Antonio’s aid. “You two are a disgrace. You’re confined to barracks and on half rations today and tomorrow.” He looked around at the locals, who either glared at him or at Javor or the men who had been fighting him. “What’s the matter with you? You call this a market? Clean this place up now!” Finally, he turned to Javor. “How are you?”
Javor shrugged. “Not a scratch. But why did that man attack me?”
Meridius looked at Javor curiously. “Not a scratch, hey? Well, well. You’ve done better than I would ever have guessed. Antonio, here, is the best boxer in the unit.”
“What? You knew—”
He was cut off as Legate Valgus boomed “Hold!” He and Photius, fully a head taller, rushed across the courtyard. All the villagers froze, staring fearfully at the Legate. “Are you hurt, lad?” asked Photius. Javor shook his head and stepped away from Meridius.
“Is everything under control?” Valgus asked Meridius quietly.
“All except those two fools, Flaccus and Brutus. They came in to help Antonio. I’ve confined them to barracks and put them on half rations.” Valgus nodded.
“And Antonio?”
“He’s suffered worse before. Broke his nose again, lost a few more teeth. But nothing he’s not used to.”
Valgus chuckled. “Any more matches like this and he’ll be eating only soup!” Meridius laughed, a little forcedly.
Photius was looking over Javor, pulling his head and his arms this way and that. “No bruises, even! Remarkable! Javor, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two. What is this?”
Photius put a hand on Javor’s back and led him away from the market and out the front gate, which stood open on the fine late-summer day. “What happened, boy? Why did you get into a fight with our hosts?”
“It wasn’t my fault! The fool of a legionnaire bumped into me, dropped his apples, blamed me for it and tried to hit me!”
“Did you hit him back?”
“Once or twice, but mostly I just dodged him. Then two of his idiot friends ran up with clubs and tried to knock my head off!”
“What did you do to them?”
“Mostly dodged, too. But I did manage to kick one in the chin. That put him down!”
Photius peered at Javor closely again. “Lad, are you wearing your amulet?” Javor pulled it out from under his tunic, then hid it away again. Photius nodded. “Interesting. I think, lad, the Legate asked this Antonio to pick a fight with you to test you.”
“What!”
“Yes. He wants to see what kind of a fighter you are.”
“Why? Does he want me to join the Legion?”
“I doubt that. No, he wanted to evaluate just how much of a threat you are.”
“Threat? I’m not threatening him! I just came here with you! I thought we were going to Constantinople!”
“Yes, we are. But how does he know that? How does he know he’s not just letting another enemy of the Empire into the borders, and a powerful one at that?”
“But … oh, no, Photius, what am I going to do? Is he going to kill me?”
“No, lad, the Legate Valgus is an honourable man. He wanted to see what kind of man you are. And his duty is to protect the Empire. But now he has more respect for you, as a fighter, at least. He may now try to enlist your help.”
Their conversation was cut short as they saw a large band of people, some leading animals, coming up the road under a great cloud of dust. The sentries saw them too. “Sklavenes approaching!” one called from the tower above the gate. Another blew a horn, which summoned a small troop of spearmen. They marched out of the gate, spears pointed forward, to await the arrival of the newcomers.
Even though the people were obviously moving as quickly as they could, it took nearly half an hour for them to reach the fort, for it seemed it was an entire village with old men and women, children and babies, goats and pigs and even cattle. Several of the people were weeping, many more were limping, and a number of old people were being helped along by younger comrades. Two young men carried an injured woman on a litter. Four legionnaires blocked them on the far side of the ditch.
“What are Sklavenes?” Javor asked Photius.
“You are a Sklavene,” Photius answered, with surprise in his voice. “Your people. You share a language in these parts, north of the Danuvius.”
Javor wondered about that. It was a term he had never heard before; it sounded a little like his people’s word for “speaking,” but he had never thought of his people as belonging to a larger nation before.
An old man with wispy hair and a comically bulbous nose mistook Photius for the fort’s commander. “Please, please let us in,” he pleaded in heavily accented Greek. He wore a frayed, plain brown
tunic, and his bare feet were covered in mud. Standing behind him was a thin woman with stringy hair and dark circles under her eyes, and an even thinner teenage girl with the same silly nose.
Valgus brushed past Photius and the sentries. “Who are you and why should the Imperial Legion allow you into a military precinct?”
“Please, oh lord, we are under attack!” the little man whined. Even Javor could tell he was terrified. He cringed before Valgus, who seemed to puff out his chest the more the other man cringed. Behind him, the other villagers cried and whined and begged for mercy and aid. “A horde of terrible barbarians burned our village …” said the leader.
“Tell me where it happened. I’ll send a patrol to deal with these raiders. But we cannot let every person and all these animals into the fort! Stand up for yourself, man! You take your people back and rebuild, and the Fifth Legion will deal with any roving barbarians who dare to come so close to the Imperial border!”
“Please your lordship, we need shelter!” the wispy man begged. “We have nowhere to go, no protection! If you leave us out here, we will all die horribly!” Behind him, women wailed, including the stringy woman who was presumably his wife. His daughter, however, appeared silent, resentful and very, very sad.
Danisa came out of the fort and stood behind Javor. Knowing she was there made him feel hopeful.
“We cannot accommodate all of you inside the fort. I won’t have every peasant for miles around banging on our door!” Valgus ordered. “Now go back where you came from—I’ll send a contingent to drive away the bandits, and you’ll just have to rebuild.”
At that, the wailing from the crowd became almost unbearable. “You don’t understand, lord!” the leader begged. He fell to his knees in the dust. “We cannot stay outside! We will all die! Please, please take us in—we will do anything! Fulfill any need for the Roman Legion! Just please protect us from…from the horde that pursues us!”
Valgus kicked the man. “Get up, you fool. Are you being pursued?” The man nodded. “Meridius! Ready a patrol, heavy armour.”
“Ave, Legato!”
“Now, fool, tell me, whom am I addressing! Your name, you idiot!”
“Ch-chibor, lord. I am called Chibor!”
“All right now, Chibor. I am the Legate, Decius Valgus Adjutor, commander of this cohort of the Fifth Legion and of this fortress, and the local representative of the Imperium,” Valgus said more gently. “Now tell me in full what happened to your village. Where is—was— your village, anyway?”
Chibor wrung his hands and looked at the ground. “It was … two days ago, my lord. We were starting to bring in the harvest of cabbages when, it seems from nowhere, suddenly there was a … a horde of … of barbarians! They surrounded us! They killed three of our people right there! And they stole all the cabbages, and then they set fire to the fields and our houses!” All the while he said this, he continued to stare at the ground and to wring his hands.
“That was two days ago?” Valgus demanded.
“Yes, sir. We didn’t know what to do at first, and then my wife said — that’s my wife there, Dalenka—she said, ‘Ask the Romans!’ Oh, she’s very smart, my wife. So I said to all the people, ‘Let’s go ask the Romans for help. Surely they’ll give us shelter and protect us from the ... the barbarians.”
“So you’ve been walking here for two days? Where is your village?”
“Not far, my lord, just north of here a little! Well, north-east really.” He waved vaguely.
“That’s south,” said a legionnaire.
“Yes, south,” Chibor affirmed.
“You said your village was north-east. Yet you point south,” said Valgus.
“Sorry.”
“And you were attacked by barbarians?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many?”
Chibor rolled his eyes and wrung his hands even more. “Oh, my lord, I don’t know. Many. Maybe twenty?”
“Were they mounted? Did they ride horses?”
Chibor looked at his wife and the other refugees, then at the ground and wrung his hands rapidly. “M-m-mounted? Oh, ah, no, I don’t believe so …” his whine trailed off.
“You don’t believe so? Most people notice horses. They’re quite large, you know!”
“Yes, my lord. I mean, no, no, there were no horses.”
“Then they shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Twenty heavily armed men cannot go swiftly in mountainous terrain. How were they armed?”
“My lord?” Chibor was looking more and more like a cornered animal. His eyes darted left and right like he was looking for an opening to escape through. He cowered lower, turned and looked behind him, then back at Valgus but never met his eyes.
“What kind of weapons did they have? My men are going after them to protect you people, and they need to know what they’ll be facing. So, what kind of weapons did they have: spears, swords, mattocks, clubs? Pitchforks?”
“I – I am not certain …”
“Oh, I have had enough of this lying cretin!” Valgus exploded. “Alexius!” he called to a centurion standing near him. “Put this fool in irons and throw him in the hole for lying to an Imperial Legate!” Chibor begged for mercy as the crowd of refugees wailed even louder. “The rest of you can clear out of here! I’ll have no beggars bleeding Rome’s stores dry because you’re too lazy to work! Now get out before I have you decimated!”
The crowd probably didn’t understand the legate’s words, but they understood his tone and wailed even louder. Four legionnaires lowered spears and advanced on the crowd slowly, and they began to move back down the dusty track, crying and protesting. Two other soldiers dragged the crying and shaking Chibor into the fort.
Javor noticed a strong-looking young man among the crowd, short but powerfully-built like Antonio the boxer. He had black hair, a black beard and thick black eyebrows. Like the chief’s daughter, he was silent and appeared resentful, as if he was biting back words. He glared at Valgus and stood his ground until a legionnaire’s spearpoint touched his chest. Then he slowly turned and followed the rest of his people.
Valgus noticed him, too. “You there! Blackbeard! Come here!” A legionnaire grabbed him by the tunic and pulled him to the Legate. “Now tell me the truth: why has this whole community come up here to beg?”
“Chibor said truth, sir,” the man said in halting Greek. “Attacked us.”
“Who attacked you?”
The man looked directly into Valgus’ eyes. “No men.”
“Oh, come now, what are you going to tell me—demons attacked you? Fairies? Sprites?” The black-bearded man looked confused. “What is your name, man?”
“Zdravko.” His voice was deep and rough as gravel.
“Now tell me, what was it that attacked you?”
“I tell you, you not believe. That why Chibor lie.”
“I will not tolerate lies. It is disrespectful to the Empire, and it will put my men’s lives at risk. Now tell me the truth.”
Zdravko hesitated, but his eyes never left Valgus’. “Drako.”
The colour left Valgus’ face, but his stern expression did not change. “Drako? Explain yourself. And don’t give me any fantasies!”
Zdravko shook his head vigourously. “No. I tell you, no men. No women. Drako. Big, big … animal. Long tail. Long neck. Black krilo.”
“Wings,” Javor translated.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” There was no more anger in Valgus’ voice. Javor thought he detected a note of fear. “I warn you, Zdravko, if you lie to me, I will have you crucified!”
“Is true, lord,” Zdravko replied, still looking directly at Valgus. “Drako. Big, long as two horses, plus long neck and long tail. Eagle claws. That man,” he pointed to Javor. “He talk my language?”
“Eh?” Valgus turned and seemed startled to see Javor standing there. “Oh, yes, I believe he is one of your countrymen. Janus, come here and translate this barbaric tongue for me, will you. He’s not making a
ny sense and claims some weird monster attacked his people. Ask him the true story.”
Javor stepped forward. “I think I speak something close to your language,” he said in the tongue he had used at home. It felt strange now, after months of speaking Greek almost exclusively. “Where did you come from?”
Zdravko seemed to relax as he poured out his story in his native language. It sounded almost the way the old folks at Javor’s village had spoken, but oddly accented, almost like the Romans’ inflection. There were a few words that he did not know, but Javor understood most of the story.
“Our village is a day’s walk north-east of here,” Zdravko said. “We were getting ready to pick the cabbages four days ago in early morning. The sun was not up yet, but some of us like to get to the field before it gets too hot. I was pulling cabbages up, when I felt a hot wind from the east. The sun started to rise, but it was blotted out by a spreading darkness. Down the slope, people were screaming. The fields around me caught fire, and I saw a dark shape come and snatch away a young girl who had come to help her mother. It took her away and left the field on fire.
“We went back to our village and hid inside our grady.” Javor understood the word was the same as his own holody, the protective wooden stockade around the top of a hill. “We spoke all day about it, until the sun went down. The old people had always told stories about dragons, said there was an old, old dragon in the mountain, living in a huge cave. They said it must have been disturbed and was coming for revenge.
“When the sun set, the mountain on the west glowed red all night. And then we felt the strange wind again, blowing all around in every direction at once. The children cried and the people panicked. The dragon landed on the grady and knocked it all down. I saw it clearly in the firelight: a body as big as two horses, plus a long neck and a head like a snake, but with huge teeth jutting out. It had a very long tail, too, as long as the body, and huge black wings. When it flapped its wings, the wind would knock you down! Its legs were thick and strong, tipped with claws like a monstrous eagle’s. It crushed a goat and reached for a child, and her father came running up with a hunting spear. The dragon barely flicked its foreleg and the man, a big man, strong, he went flying. His back was broken. The dragon spat on the mother then, a thick heavy fluid that smoked and stank and she fell down, screaming. I saw her skin crack like it was burning. Smoke came from her body and she died in agony.
