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 res
t.”
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.
“I think Trajan is going to be happy with us, Anakreon.”
With a pinch of salt
The corridor was quiet and dark as Melicos pounded along it, his sandals flapping on the decorative marble floor, his way lit only by small pottery oil lamps flickering on ledges placed at regular intervals. His hand tilted expertly first one way and then the other with practiced ease, balancing the elegant silver platter with its succulent dish as he raced around corners, his expensive, sauce-spattered tunic wafting around him.
It was the lot of a slave, not a freedman, to spend his time running to keep his master happy but Melicos felt no shame at such behaviour. He had received his manumission some ten years ago at the behest of the glorious emperor Claudius Caesar and had remained in his former slave position gratefully, receiving a considerable wage, a small apartment of his own and a number of other benefits, not the least of which was living and working in the great Palatine complex.
The former slave had impressed the deformed, barely-audible and yet incredibly astute and careful Emperor from the very beginning with his innovative and masterful ability with food. Even as a slave he had gone from being a simple cook among a dozen others to running the kitchen in those first couple of years. Since his manumission and being given free rein to hire his own staff, however, his kitchen had become famous: the envy of Rome’s noble classes. Invitations to the emperor’s parties were sought after by the greatest generals and richest patricians. All for Melicos’ simple expertise with sauces and combinations.
Carefully juggling the platter, spinning it expertly with his little finger to keep it balanced, Melicos bellowed an order as he ran and the door at the end of the corridor swung open as he neared it, granting access to the Imperial apartments.
On he ran, into the decorative entrance hall with its frescos of elegant parkland, lakes and bridges, swans and geese, colonnaded villas and trees. Deftly, he jumped a small table. He could have navigated the route from the kitchen to Claudius’ triclinium in the pitch darkness without spilling a drop, he’d done it so many times.
The smell of Melicos’ signature dish wafted after him as he ran.
His sauce cooks were all experts in their field. Pratucus had been chief chef to the governor of Narbonensis before his fame spread and Melicos sent him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Banathes was a Syrian who had risen to fame with his own chain of thermopolia in Emesa. He was often a little heavy on the spices, but was learning to temper his work for the more jaded palate of Rome. Latiades was a find: a Greek who could work wonders with mulsum.
It had been something of a wrench letting go of control over the sauces, but Melicos simply didn’t have time these days to work in as much detail as he used to, having to monitor the work of three dozen kitchen staff in an almost constant flurry. At least they were the three best sauce cooks to be found in the entire Empire.
Ha!
He laughed bitterly at the thought as he rounded another corner, slapping along into a wide corridor with bright windows that dazzled with sunlight, fading the beautiful painted griffins on the far wall.
One of the prized suilli, coated with his special sauce of mixed garlic, sea-salt, black pepper, reduced cream and crushed poppy seeds, rolled off the pile and, with a move that took more dexterity than any gladiator could ever hope to achieve, Melicos dipped and came up running still, the precious cargo rolling back into place, caught once more by the silver dish.
Claudius had always loved his suilli, but since that day that Melicos had perfected his sauce recipe, the emperor had refused to eat them in any other fashion, demanding the dish at least three times each week. It had become a little repetitive and dull for the head chef, but now, with his three sauciers, he could farm out the most irritating tasks, and the pride in his famed dish made any trouble worthwhile. Claudius had forbidden the staff from allowing the recipe out of the Palatine kitchens, and visitors were rarely treated to the delicacy, unless the emperor wished to tease someone.
The meal had been in progress for almost half an hour. Melicos redoubled his speed. He just simply had to get the dish there in time!
Another door opened in response to a shout, and he pelted into the main residential area, the sounds of muffled conversation drifting back through the doorways, backed by the music of a masterful trio.
Melicos pinched the bridge of his nose as he ran. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. The emperor wasn’t a person given to extremes of violence, unlike his predecessor, but even he would have trouble here, and Agrippina would be harsh to say the least.
Her attitude toward the kitchen staff had been made abundantly clear in her first month on the Palatine, following her wedding and accession. It had come to her attention that rats had been spotted in the kitchen and stores of the palace. Her violent outbursts and rabid demands that every brick of the kitchens, stores and servants’ quarters, well over a hundred rooms and passages in all, be cleaned by hand and washed down with vinegar and exterminators be brought in to deal with the vermin.
Ridiculous. Rats were ever present. The lady of the Palatine could demand whatever she wished, but there would always be rats in the lower levels. They were a fact of life, like birds or sunsets or slaves.
And thus, inadvertently, it had been Agrippina that had caused all of this, thought Melicos as he ran, gritting his teeth. Years now of scrubbing damp, decayed brick, and leaving out traps, hiring burly charlatans who would come with a box, display a dead rat they probably brought with them, collect their cash and leave. All because the lady Agrippina detested rodents so much she would turn the Palatine inside out to deal with them.
And in those years it had become apparent that she held the staff in little more esteem than she did the rats, though this disgust and enmity was mutual
, he had to admit. Whatever the emperor saw in her, none of the staff could understand. And as for her obnoxious brat of a boy…
The voices were loud now and the music almost present. Melicos came to a halt in the vestibule and paused to recover his breath. No matter the urgency, one did not burst into the emperor’s presence at a run, heaving in gasps of air. A half minute would be enough to compose himself, straighten his tunic, and round the corner to present the dish to Claudius and his guests.
He could only hope he was still in time.
The dish of suilli smelled succulent and appetising, much as the last one had.
The one that had been delivered half an hour ago.
The one with the ‘special sauce’.
There would be an investigation as to how the rat poison ended up on the delicate mushrooms. Melicos could trace the chain of events in his mind clearly enough. The last exterminators they had in were a real haphazard lot with no sense of decorum or order. One of them, probably the Gaul with the disturbing squint, would have left the poison on the shelf while he worked and forgot to collect it afterwards.
Banathes, the Syrian saucier, would have reached for the powdered garlic and salt and his hand inadvertently closed on the wrong jar; the poison had looked so like the garlic mix that even Melicos had had to sniff it to be sure.
Someone would die for this, certainly. Melicos just hoped it wasn’t him. Poor Halotus, the emperor’s taster, would have had the first taste, but he would only have had a little bite, so the poison would likely work slowly on him and give him a bad few days of digestive trouble. But eaten in bulk…
Melicos mopped his perspiring brow and took a deep breath, rounding the corner into the busy triclinium with steady breath and a carefully blank expression.
The emperor Claudius lay on his couch, lounging next to Agrippina, the witch plastered in so much white lead that she looked more like a statue of herself. Other guests, including the insidious and oily Otho, lay around listening to the soothing music, chattering away without a care in the world.
Tales of Ancient Rome Page 6