by J K Ishaya
"In the summer of my thirty-seventh year, they descended upon Sarmizegetusa with a fury. We had, for the final time, underestimated them. The nobles were forced to flee inside the fortress walls, and I and my men with them, thinking of our families and hoping that we might hold out against the invaders. On the steppes below, the Romans set fire to the dava."
Howard emits a soft gasp and his hand sits still on the paper, the pencil going slack.
"Don't you want to take more notes?"
"Wha- Oh." He looks down but ends up fiddling with the pencil rather than writing. "So, the town was destroyed?"
"All of it. For an entire night we heard the screaming from below and watched columns of smoke blot out the stars. We had been caught in a long drought, you see. There had been no rain for weeks, so the forests, fields, and homes nearby were dry and vulnerable.
“The screams. They dug into our ears like talons and the smell climbed up into our noses, smoke and burning flesh. The next morning, a sickening silence consumed the lower steppes and palisades, leaving no way to know how many might have escaped, surrendered, or were captured.
"The Sargetia sat low between its banks but still supplied water up to the fortress, where it ran clear and fresh into our homes. We mourned the villagers but praised Zalmoxis that we still had the means to survive. If Dacia's nobility could hold out, then hope remained for the nation as a whole. This was our own arrogance at play, and the means by which we failed our own citizens who perished horribly in those fires."
"But isn't it true?" Howard insists. "Isn't culture defined by the upper class? And your noblemen and women were the key to Dacian culture? To your traditions, to your faith, even? You had to sacrifice those below you, whether you liked it or not, to preserve that which defined Dacia itself." This is the snotty side of him showing from a corner of his mind I've already explored. He thinks of himself as modern nobility, a notion implanted by his family, even though the wealth is gone, the ancestral home whisked out from under him and his mother. This is why the furniture in this house is too big for its confines; it's the remnants of that old noble life he's clinging to—that they are both clinging to—and rather pathetically.
A snide chuckle escapes me and for a moment I grit my teeth. There is little need in arguing over something that happened so long ago. "No, not at all. In hindsight, no. The Romans only invaded less than a quarter of the Dacian empire in the south. All of the free lands around us, occupied by the common man, were still there and just as entrenched in the same culture as the nobles. They still worshiped Zalmoxis, ate the same foods that we ate, crafted the same art, spoke the same language. Certainly, there were magisterial positions in those towns, the closest to nobles in the Freelands, but it did nothing to save Dacian culture.
"We were arrogant," I reaffirm to my proud, young audience. "As conceited as the Romans, and that is what cost us everything. After the Romans discovered and destroyed the ceramic pipes that ran up the mountain and supplied our water, oh, I can tell you, we were not so arrogant then."
Chapter Four
"So much for the nobles holding out against the Romans. We never expected that their next attack would not come in the form of burning pitch pots vaulted over our walls, a hail of arrows from their scorpios, or battering rams at the gate, or a gladius in the gut. No, thirst became their new weapon of choice. We had wine but in times of turmoil, we became an abstinent people in devotion to Zalmoxis. The Romans knew this. Besides, what does wine do but dull the senses and deplete your body's own water? And in that situation, we needed all of our will and wits.
"We had food a plenty. There were still a few head of cattle and goats within the fortress. They grazed the slopes inside the walls, and the granaries were well stocked, but water became so precious to us so quickly. At first, we were able to draw milk from some of the livestock, but they, too, needed water, and soon no longer gave.
"All of that gold lost its value completely. Gold does not quench thirst or wash wounds. We could not bathe, so everyone reeked as they remained covered in smudges of dirt and soot and sheens of sweat over their skin, their hair greasy. Afraid to stay in their homes, many gathered in the square in front of the sure mare, where they could hear news or orders should another attack come. They sat on the steps or leaned against the walls under the columned arcades. All businesses were closed but for a few smithies who filled the air with the ring of steel as they beat out as many back up weapons as they could, but with no water to quench the steel, they produced little more than metal sticks. Bowyers crafted more arrows from whatever they could find since supplies were running out. Some citizens had begun to discard unnecessary garments; women had taken off scarves and heavy jewelry, and the men had removed their caps and outer vests. Small children were in little more than simple linen tunics.
"Of the clean water that had come in before the pipes were destroyed, we were down to a central catch in the square that had once been a glorious fountain. We couldn't afford to post soldiers anywhere else but on the wall, so two nobles guarded the catch and rationed out a half scoop at a time with names meticulously marked in coal on a parchment. There were, to my knowledge, two attempts to rush at the cauldron, to lash up handfuls of the precious liquid, wasting some of it upon the ground. Those responsible were punished severely while many looked on, too tired to care. They stopped praying for rain since the sky remained an insipid blue by day and an apathetic star field at night. Zalmoxis did not send so much as a single cloud to give hope. Never had a clear sky felt so oppressive and bleak.
"My men and I left the water to the rest of Sarmizegetusa's ragged and tired populace and drank the fresh blood of a goat at the moment the animal was slaughtered." I find my throat suddenly tight.
"What is it?"
"Nothing, just the recollection. How thick and tangy and slimy that blood. It hung in my throat along with the lingering taste of charred wood breathed in days before when the village burned. I handed off the cup of it immediately to my lieutenant, Brassus, whom I loved like a brother as I did all of the men under my command. 'Hurry, it'll thicken before the others get any,' I said.
"Brassus grumbled before he took a long gulp and nearly gagged. 'We're fucked, Zyr,' he said, watching the red oozing down the inside of the chalice. 'Well and supremely fucked. Zalmoxis has turned his back.'
"'Don't let anyone else hear you say that,' I growled under my breath and he nodded to the warning. We were such a superstitious lot, and losing faith in Zalmoxis meant to lose faith in ourselves.
"You're blushing."
Howard reaches up and touches his reddening cheeks, which makes him grow more flushed. "Your foul language," he admits. "And, I guess it is rather amusing that you hated the taste of blood."
"You think because I thrive on it now that I liked it then?" The edge returns to my voice. "It was disgusting." I want to move around, go somewhere else. This tiny bedroom grows stifling around me, but all I can do is sit up, reposition myself on the bed, rest my arm on the foot board. "We watched the butcher work on the goat, handing slabs of meat and bone over to a cook who loaded them onto a spit. But none of us wanted anymore meat. I sent Brassus off to see that the others had a sup before the blood grew too thick to tolerate. I turned and found that my wife had been nearby, observing the entire exchange.
"My wife—" I swallow down a hard lump from thinking of her, even after so much time has passed. "She saw the grimace on my face and offered me the water she'd saved from her own rations.
"'Don't expect me to kiss that mouth now,' she said.
Howard chuckles and then goes deadpan when I look at him. My eyes are stinging, and I know not what lies in them, whether it's the red irises of the creature lurking underneath, or the pain of my most core memories dredged up for this human boy's entertainment—no, I'm educating him, I remind myself—but I haven't spoken of my human family in centuries, not even to Kvasir.
"Her name was Bendis, and she was the most beautiful being I had ever encountered in
my life at that point, small in build but strong… so very strong. I considered myself lucky as we were gifted with that most rare element where arranged marriages are concerned: love. I remember her at that moment, silhouetted against the campfires in the square. Her dress, a faded red like my tunic and smeared with soot, billowed gently on a merciful breeze. She still wore some trappings of nobility with golden spirals on her arms, and her dark hair remained pinned up, though little wisps of it had fallen free around her face and clung to the perspiration on her neck. Little streaks of dirt smudges dotted her face and over her tattoos, which matched mine, for the elite's women all had chosen to take the markings of their men to show that they were warriors' wives, but it only made her more beautiful to me. I'd watched her wander amidst the families gathered in the square, offering help where she could. Somehow, she managed to keep smiling, even if it was exhausting for her.
"'Here, love,' she said and held out to me a chalice with barely a few mouthfuls in it. 'You have to drink water. You will be no good to us a dried husk.'
"I insisted that no, the blood would do and bade her give the water to our children. We had two: a boy and a girl. My son, Tsinna, escorted her that night. At twelve, he had become rangy over those last few days, his hair a mess, his face dirty. I mused that he could have easily escaped into the forest and become part of it with relative ease.
"'I can drink the blood, too!' he insisted.
"'You can, but you will not,' I told him, knowing that he really only wanted to please me the way I used to want to please my own father, and, like me he had been training to become a warrior since the age of five. I encouraged it, seeing as how that drive had saved me from the pain I carried around every day."
"Oh, right, the curvature in your back," Howard recalls. "I cannot imagine."
"No, you cannot."
Adjacent to me, Kvasir takes another patient breath. You don't have to be so brusque with him.
It is less the pain I think of now but those few perfect nights during peace time that Bendis massaged my back. Her hands were adept at finding each vertebrae and knot and at least easing the tightness in the muscles even if she could do nothing about the long-term condition. These moments often led to playful tickling and mad love making, tasting each other from head to toe with salty kisses, but that is none of Mr. Lovecraft's business nor something he would understand anyway.
"It was indescribable," I relent to Howard. "Especially in those last days of the empire. For my family, for my men, for everything I fought for, I stood as straight as I could, and I pretended that the burning ache in my back and center came from a lightning bolt from Zalmoxis, shooting down through me, holding me up and empowering me. My body and my armor were a weight I had to keep carrying, no matter what. For me and my men, shedding garments in the heat was not a luxury. The elite still donned our coats of scale armor over our tunics. We kept our sicas sheathed in our belts, our falxes either gripped in our hands or set in custom belt holders.
"Thirsty or not, we had to remain alert and ever conscientious that the Romans would soon try to get within the walls, even though they need not bother at that point. All they need do was wait until the city rotted from the inside out with Dacian fear and frustration."
"Tell me about these weapons you mention: sicas and falxes." Howard scribbles down the names, spelling them phonetically as he did Sarmizegetusa.
"They were both curved blade weapons, almost like scythes. The sica was a dagger, while the falx was a two-handed long sword developed after the early waves of Rome. The falx, particularly, was designed to gut or disable—to cut the back of the knees here, and the Achilles tendons here." I reach down to run two fingers across the areas in question. "And when the curved tip came down with a hammering motion, it could split open a legionnaire's helmet like an egg and go right into the skull."
Howard cringes at this description, and I cannot help a little feeling of satisfaction. Even from Kvasir I sense amusement. We both know that if Howard wants to hear these tales, he must tolerate a wide range of descriptions and no small amount of gore.
"All Dacian warriors—infantry and elite alike—were never without these weapons. My falx was custom made with the carved end of a camel femur I'd picked up from a trader and the tagma of Decebal's family line inlaid in the handle in gold. I had the femur set between the handle and blade not so much as a guard but as a catch that would fit into a caddy I customized for my belts since the scythe-like blade did not exactly owe itself to sit in a scabbard the way a gladius did, and it was certainly awkward to carry no matter what. Regardless, I am still fond of the design. Over time, the Romans adapted their helmets to better defense, incorporating ridges across the tops that reinforced against a point blow from a falx. So, we had developed yet more new techniques to slash at our enemies, and as I've indicated, we had no problem with cutting throats when it came to it.
"I wandered that night, moving from camp fire to camp fire, weighing the lack of morale around me, until I climbed the steps to one of the front watch towers on the western wall to check the status of the men stationed along the ramparts. Every time I made that climb, my gut swam a little as the view of our skillfully cut and stacked stone shifted to the open view of slope below. Where once I would have looked out at a lush hillside and entry road alive with colorful merchants' tents and camping travelers, now under the almost full moon, I saw scorched earth and the enemy's progress highlighted in silver-gray light on ash. They'd surrounded the foundation and dug out lines of circumvallating trenches as far around as the slope would allow except where the grade became too steep. Camp fires dotted the slope at a distance well out of range of Dacian arrows, and ran along the main road in. Tents, made of large squares of oiled leather, were illuminated from the lamps inside, creating an effect of amber glow that wove all the way down the road into the woodlands along the river. The Emperor's command tent sat further down the slope out of our sight and central to the greater encampment dense with legionnaires and their commanders along the river. They had even brought along whores and wives and groups of household slaves, all ensconced in the followers' camp further out on the other side of the hills. Our demise was good entertainment for them.
"Between the moonglow and the flickering light of their torches, I could make out a scurry of nighttime activity as new siege engines came together casting ever growing shadows toward the western wall. We heard the wracking of distant hammers across the hills and occasionally a gruff voice shouted orders. My grasp of Latin made out the occasional insult and a frustrated command to do something all over again.
"As I looked down the lines, I found many of our soldiers doing everything they could to stand upright enough to keep watch over the wall. Some of their wives were there, keeping them company, but these women were also armed and ready should movement happen. They were perhaps not trained to the extent of the men, but they could wield a falx if necessary, and many were skilled archers. One of my men, Scorylo, came to my side and looked out at the bleak view. 'Gratitude for the refreshment,' he said gruffly of the goat blood.
"'My pleasure,' I returned.
"'Zyr, look at this. They can barely hold themselves up. We cannot do this much longer.' He gestured along the wall.
"I nodded quietly, and then it occurred to me that Decebal had not made an appearance for some time. 'Where is our king?'
"'In the temple, I suppose.' Scorylo's eyes darkened under his harsh brow. My father had been spending an excessive amount of time in our great temple in the spiritual district.
"'Damn.' We listened to the noises out in the dark: hammering and more shouting. 'I hate this, sitting here doing nothing.'
"'I know.' His face, in the moonlight, looked so wan. I knew mine couldn't be much better, and I realized then that substituting blood for water would not help. We were going to die of thirst just like the rest of the populous within the walls. And then I saw a light flash behind his eyes, evidence that wheels were turning. He pulled me aside, making sur
e we were well out of earshot of the nearest sentries. 'What if we took the battle to them?'
“I asked him how so, when we were the ones trapped with no siege engines of our own, our square filled with an exhausted and grimy populous of mothers, children and elderly. 'Not a full battle,' he explained. 'Just the elite. We have the means to go over the south wall in the holy district and down through the forest… what's left of it. We could hunt the fringes of the camp, paint their tents with blood. The distraction might buy us more time, and we could get plenty of water to revive ourselves. Come on, Zyr. It is what we do, is it not?'
"I had to admit, I liked the idea. We in the elite had grown accustomed to acting on our training, to killing with stealth and not standing behind a wall waiting. 'And then we climb back inside the walls?' I said.
"'Exactly. We'll have been and gone by the time they discover the bodies, and you know we can leave plenty of those. The uproar will have them looking within the valley for renegades, no idea that the attack came from within weak, surrounded Sarmizegetusa. My lord, what do you say?'
"I agreed and told him to bring together the other men in the tower house. I needed to seek counsel with Decebal first, and then I wanted to also tell Bendis what we were doing. Scorylo headed down the wall to gather the others, and I wandered back into the square and continued on, crossing through the east gate and into the spiritual district, enclosed by walls of its own. Staked torches lit the way. There were as many people gathered there as in the square. Groups of them were huddled along the sides of the stone path up to the big temple, on their knees and bent over in prostration, begging Zalmoxis for rain. In the torch light, I could see their backs hunched over, their bare feet peeking from under their haunches. They looked not like people to me but strange curled pods in their dirty, oily clothing.
"This area of our fortress stood a Cyclopean wonder. We had several temples devoted to different modes of prayer, and columned walks on grassy terraces and gardens. Every stone was cut and fit perfectly against its neighbor just like the stones that made up our protective walls. Near the heart of it, a large circular platform served as a sundial with a center pole made of crafted iron and covered in gold leaf, and next to that stood our great round temple, the largest structure, white walled and gold trimmed. I knew Decebal would be in there, and I started down the pathway from the surrounding wall, when I halted to the sound of feet softly landing on the grass behind me as if someone had jumped down from the north wall. In hindsight, I know the noise was probably made on purpose to get my attention, for the individual who made it was quite able to land with no sound what so ever. I spun around, about to reach for my falx and tear it from its cradle, and then I froze.