Tales of Ancient Rome (8 page)

The young man nodded respectfully.

“
That means it’s down to the four of us. There are about a dozen huts down there, several barns, and four copses of trees. That means absolutely anything could be waiting for us. There could be three of them or three hundred. Opinions? Concerted front or scattered skirmish?”

The huge Thracian scratched his beard.

“
Too dangerous to split up. Doesn’t matter if it takes us longer to find what we’re looking for, whatever it might be, but we have to be able to mutually defend.”

A chorus of nods confirmed the decision.

“
Agreed. There’s a wooden bridge over the stream, but the whole thing’s narrow enough to jump. We ride hard, cross near the bridge and move like a harvest through the village. I want at least one of those men alive for questioning.”

“
And if there’s a thousand men hiding in caves nearby?”

“
Then we meet again in Elysium to lick our wounds. Come on.”

Kicking his heels into the horse, Maximus with his three companions rode down the slope toward the narrow valley, while young Senna disappeared from sight.

There was something glorious, even in the face of tremendous danger or the threat of the unknown, about charging downhill with spears out and trusted companions at your sides. Maximus found himself grinning wolfishly as he raced through the thick grass.

They had already covered a third of the distance when the alarm went up in the village. Chaos erupted among the thatched hovels and Maximus was both heartened and surprised to see that, despite the call, only perhaps eight or nine men appeared, arming themselves.

“
We’ve got ‘em!” he called out above the rush of wind and the thunder of hooves.

The charge was always a dizzying blur. Not the standard tactic of a Roman cavalry unit and thrilling when experienced, the distance passed in the blink of an eye, drowned in adrenaline and the pounding of the blood. Before they had time to think, the four men had reached the small stream running to the west of the village. Orosius crossed the bridge, the horse’s hooves thundering on the timber, while the other three jumped the narrow defile with ease, racing on into the settlement.

With practiced efficiency, the cavalrymen drew back and cast their spears, each having marked a man. Two throws fell short, though Anakreon and Statilius found their targets, the spears punching through the Dacians’ unarmoured chests. One fell to the floor, thrashing around and trying to pull the spear out, mortally wounded yet defiant in defeat. The other was thrown back and lounged there, dead yet propped up by the shaft that stuck into the turf behind him.

Four men ran on toward them as they closed, drawing their swords. Three others took one look at the attackers and turned, running for one of the small copses dotted around the landscape.

A Dacian warrior, for all his lack of discipline and armour, was a formidable foe, as the armies of Trajan had discovered these past five years. The whole design of the standard legionary helmet was being reworked and re-manufactured with a reinforced cross-rib over the bowl to protect from the overhand blows with their dreadful weapons.

The falx, a two-handed long, curved sword wielded with the point forward, had proved most effective when brought down upon a legionary, invariably cleaving him in two, scything through the helmet as though it were made of linen.

As the Romans hurtled into their enemy, swords swinging as they closed, Orosius learned to his cost the second dreadful use of the falx. The huge, braided warrior who was running toward him ducked and swung the long concave blade with all his might, removing the front legs of the horse half way up their length. Rider and beast both went down in a screaming mess, colliding with the barbarian. Orosius died unnoticed by his comrades, the horrifying weapon buried deep in his back, slicing through ribs, spine and organs. The defender, however, had fared little better, his chest crushed under the weight of the horse and, after delivering the final blow to his Roman enemy with incredible fortitude, he collapsed onto his back and breathed his last.

Anakreon managed to manoeuvre his horse out of the way of a similar horrible blow, sweeping down with his long cavalry blade and neatly decapitating the Dacian, while crying out some blood-curdling curse in Greek and wheeling to see who else needed help.

Statilius was locked in desperate combat with one of the two remaining warriors in the village centre, their blades ringing off and grating along one another with spine-tingling noises. There was already a large chunk missing from the Roman’s large shield, mute evidence of the first blow that had been well delivered but better defended.

Maximus, an expert in the saddle even from a young age, raced on to his target and, as the man prepared to sweep at the horse’s legs, the cavalry officer threw himself forward over the beast’s neck and swept down with his blade, knocking the falx aside and riding over the man, hooves smashing bones and pulping innards.

Sparing barely a glance for Maximus, Anakreon rode across to give his other beleaguered companion a hand.

Moments later it was over. Eight bodies lay in the open space between the huts, only one Roman and one equine. Maximus turned and shaded his eyes, squinting in the direction the three fleeing warriors had taken. There was something odd about that. Why run, leaving their companions to fight? They had to be protecting something important; and if there was anything important enough worth protecting, the emperor would want to see it.

“
Three others ran into those woods."

His companions turned to look for the three fleeing barbarians but, as they did, Maximus’ attention was drawn to a sudden sharp intake of breath. His head snapping round, he was shocked and horrified to see the blood-soaked point of a Roman spear protruding from Statilius. The Dacian who had been impaled with an initial throw but left to die had, miraculously and through some sheer feat of will, managed to pull the spear from his chest and hurl it from his prone position, his shot true and strong.

“
My own spear!” With a look of baffled disbelief, the cavalryman slid from the saddle and fell to the ground, the shaft shattering beneath him.

Anakreon bellowed a howl of rage and trotted his horse the dozen or so steps to the prone warrior, slashing down with his sword repeatedly and carefully, so as not to deliver a single killing blow, but to remove appendages and leave painful slices.

As the Dacian lay on the floor, thrashing the stumps of his limbs and shrieking, the hulking Greek spat on him and rode back to his commander.

“
Bastards!”

Maximus gave him a grim nod.

“
Come on. Let’s find out what they’re hiding.”

The pair turned, sparing a last glance for the two fallen companions who would lie unburied and pecked at by pests. It was no way for a brave man to make the final journey. With deep breaths, they rode off after the three men.

The rear of the village was an array of corn fields and the tracks of the fugitives, leaving broken ears of corn snapped and trampled, was clear enough that a child could follow them. With the advantage of saddle height, the pair began to ride through the corn, following the trail.

Perhaps half way across the field, Maximus reach across and tapped his companion and the pair hauled on their reins.

“
What’s wrong here?”

“
I dunno, sir? Path’s clear enough to me.”

“
Precisely.” Maximus frowned. “There were a dozen places they could have run where they would make it to woodland, but they choose to run across the only field that would openly display their tracks?”

“
Perhaps they panicked?”

Maximus shook his head. “I don’t think so. These men had a purpose. Come on.”

Carefully now, their horses plodding on with interminable slowness, the two continued across the field. Suddenly, with a start, Maximus held his hand up.

“
There. Can you see?”

Anakreon frowned and squinted into the hazy sunlight, chaff floating in the air and the smell of honey and wheat in his nose.

“
No. What?”

Maximus pointed forward and then off to his left. The huge Greek raised his eyebrows.

“
Bugger me. That was subtle.”

The heavy tracks continued forward toward the woodland, but, barely visible, a second trail veered off to the left, back toward the stream. Whoever had recently passed that way had trodden very lightly to try and disguise his path.

“
What now, sir?”

Maximus frowned.

“
Two went on while one went left. Without wanting to give you the shitty end of the stick, my friend, you’re more equipped to handle two than I am.”

Anakreon grinned and nodded.

“
One for each hand: just how I like it. Meet you back at the village?”

“
I hope so. Fortuna go with you.”

“
And you.”

The two men clasped hands briefly and then separated, following the diverging trails.

After less than a minute, Maximus reached the edge of the corn field, his friend lost to sight in the distance. As he rode from the crop and out onto the grassy verge of the stream, he noted with interest the one, gnarled old tree that stood proud from the low bank. The well-concealed shape of a pair of shoulders was just visible around the sides.

“
Come out and I’ll consider sparing you.”

There was a pregnant pause and finally the warrior rose from his crouch and walked around the side of the tree. A huge, bearded man with a long, strong face and an expensive felt cap, he was not the average warrior. Most of the Dacians fought like the Celts; naked or in rough clothes, furs and leather. This man, however, wore a bronze scale shirt that was almost concealed by the outer fur garment. A simple circlet held back the bulk of his wild, thick hair, and his stance was that of a nobleman. There was something familiar about him.

“
I need information on the disposition of the remaining Dacian forces. If you comply with me, I will see to it that you live.”

The man shook his head. In a thick, deep, gravelly voice, he addressed his pursuer in passable Latin.

“
Better to die now as a free man than to live in chains.”

Maximus shrugged.

“
The emperor wants slaves. You’re no different from the rest.”

But he was. A flash of memory. He’d seen that face before. Twice even. Once at Tapae four years ago when the two opposing leaders had met to end the previous conflict and then again, recently, rising proud above the ramparts of Sarmizegethusa as Rome prepared to end the reign of…

“
Decebalus.”

The man took a deep breath.

“
I am King in my mountains. I will not be dragged through the streets of Rome for the glory of your emperor.”

Before Maximus could do anything to prevent it, the dethroned king produced a short, curved blade with an expensive gilded hilt and drew it across his neck, slicing through muscle, arteries and windpipe.

With a defiant rictus, the air whistling from his neck and a spray of crimson jetting out onto the grass, Decebalus, last king of Dacia, cast the soaked dagger to the ground at Maximus’ feet. The Roman officer slumped slightly in the saddle and shook his head as the king closed his eyes with deliberate slowness and slowly crumpled, the life going out of him as his crashed to the ground.

“
I’m sure the emperor will be equally happy with your head, o king. A wasted gesture, sadly.”

He stared down at the body. The emperor had sent out the ‘exploratores’ units to search for a massed force of Dacian survivors preparing for another last stand. The truth seemed to be somewhat different. This was what Decebalus’ defiance had brought his people: small groups of fugitives fleeing through fields and hiding in farms. The conquest was truly over.

With a sigh, he drew his knife.

Perhaps thirty minutes later, Anakreon strode into open grassland from the cornfield. Covered in blood, one of his arms hung limp at his side and his horse was missing, but he bore a wide grin.

“
Wondered if you were alright, sir? You never made it back to the village.”

He wandered across to his commander, who was seated on a rock by the water, his cloak bundled up to create a bag next to him. The big Greek frowned as he took in the blood-soaked grass and the headless body.

“
Do tell.”

Wearily, Maximus lifted the heavy makeshift bag and passed it over. The bottom was black and glistening wet; grisly trophy that would end a war. A prize beyond imagining for a common soldier.