Daizus recovered slowly, and by the time the sword practice ended an hour later, was dressed and leaning on his long staff of office, a yellowing blotch emerging on his forehead. He glared daggers at Rufinus, though there was no more insolent talk. The winning tent part of the training jeered at the losers, who defiantly shouted their anger in return. Rufinus stepped in, telling them there would be plenty of opportunities to get their own back.
And there were. The day passed surprisingly quickly for Rufinus, pilum training on the river bank proving, as Cassius had suggested, their weakest skill as a unit. He singled out three men who could consistently throw well and offered them an extra pay bonus if they would take the others in hand and help improve their own skills. The swimming earned a different tent party extra wine and another one the task of scrubbing the barrack veranda clean.
By the end of the day, he felt that the men were starting to show some level of improvement, though it was hard to tell over just one day. Throughout the experience, Daizus worked precisely to rule, his voice respectful but his face insolent beyond words. Rufinus’ main worry, though, was whether he had taken Cassius’ system of incentives too far. By the end of the week, at this rate, every man in the Third Century would have half a dozen rewards and punishments to his name, and Rufinus was already running out of ideas. He would have to become very inventive to keep going with this.
That evening, once he had seen the men back to barracks, he was leaning on the window sill of his room, when Cassius passed. The senior centurion paused and smiled. ‘Tired?’
‘It’s been an interesting day.’
‘I heard. Heard you laid your optio out in the sand.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘I don’t know whether it was a good idea. What do you think?’
Cassius shrugged and strode through the door into the room, where they could talk a little more privately. ‘It wouldn’t have been my solution, but only time will tell what effect it has. You’re making waves here, though. Try to think like you belong in the role, Rufinus. It’s a matter of familiarity and belonging. I see it all the time: new men come in from the central provinces and they think like an outsider. The Thirteenth has been in Dacia since the province was founded. The legion is connected to the land and most of its recruits are of Thracian or Dacian blood. They’re a family, bound by ties of culture as well as martial brotherhood. It’s the same with governors. They come in from Rome and see Dacia as a stepping-stone, a quick rung in the ladder to higher office, and a lucrative one at that. None of them think in terms of the good of the province. That’s why it’s always so unsettled.’
‘I’d never realised things were so complicated here.’
‘If you think this is complicated, wait until we go north and you meet the real Dacia.’
‘Care for a drink?’ Rufinus asked.
‘Thank you, but I’m heading for the bath house. This next hour is reserved for officers. You might want to make use of it yourself.’
Rufinus smiled as Cassius left and wandered off, then slipped his boots back on and strolled out into the camp. Two corners and fifty heartbeats brought him to the door of Senova’s temporary quarters in the former workshop. He knocked gently and the door was opened by a boy of perhaps six or seven in a drab tunic with downcast eyes.
‘Gnaeus,’ greeted Senova from across the room, where she sat on a pleasant couch next to a low table bearing a bowl of fruit. ‘Good. Let him in, Luca.’
The boy stepped aside and then closed the door behind him before scurrying off through one of the two temporary partition walls.
‘You have a slave,’ Rufinus said with a grin.
Her expression hardened. ‘How would you like a kick somewhere delicate, Gnaeus. I tried to argue against it but the tribune seems to think the idea of a lady without a slave unthinkable. I argued him down from three to one, at least. I keep trying to get Luca to sit down and stop working, but he won’t.’
Rufinus chuckled and sank gratefully into another seat opposite, grabbing a large juicy peach from the bowl. Over in the corner, on a pile of blankets, Acheron opened one bored eye, then closed it and went back to sleep.
‘How did your first day as centurion go?’
He took a bite of the peach and smiled. ‘Up and down. Had to strip half naked and concuss an optio, but other than that it was easy enough. They’ve got potential. I think they’re actually better warriors than my own intake were when I started with the Tenth.’
‘With luck you’ll be able to get through the rest of the week without having to punch too many people.’
Rufinus chuckled. He was fairly confident about the next few days, in truth. The men would do as he told them without complaint now that Daizus was in his place. And they would improve with all the incentives he offered, he was sure. He realised, as he reached for another peach, that the fruit bowl was sitting on something, and lifted the container, peering at what it had covered. A map of Dacia.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘The tribune. He has several. I enquired as to where we were to go, and he showed me. I thought I would like to keep the map and familiarise myself with the province.’
‘Good idea. Show me where we’re going, then.’
As she leaned forward, Rufinus caught with interest the name of the Roxolani off to the east, between Dacia Province and that part of Moesia that bordered the Euxine Sea. He could see a small line of dots, recently added to the map in a north-south direction: the new system of border forts the emperor had decreed. It made him smile to see one called Commodava. Perhaps one day he would be important enough to have a fort named after him. Rufinava? He chortled, then concentrated as Senova’s delightful finger touched the map.
‘This is Drobeta, here. We head this way and across a place called Vulcan’s Pass here, where the mountains rise. Here,’ she tapped the map at a black dot among some hills, ‘is Sarmis-something-or-other. It was the capital when Dacia was a kingdom. Apparently Sarmatians now hold it. Then we head to Ulpia Traiana, which was the Roman capital for a while.’ She slid her lovely fingertip to that next spot, off to the west, then north again. ‘Then to a place called Micia. Then to Apulum, where the governor will be. She gestured to the capital. Rufinus tore his eyes from her finger, which was giving him very unmartial thoughts, and concentrated. His gaze strayed north, to the edge of the civilised world. There, beyond Roman territory, the word Sarmartii was sketched. Not far south of the border, a dot was accompanied by a ‘V’. He pointed to it.
‘That will be Pescennius Niger and the Fifth Macedonica.’
‘You need to get your men ready. We’re departing next market day, the tribune tells me.’
Rufinus smiled and sat back.
They would be ready. He would be ready. Despite Celer’s stark description of Dacia, the way Cassius talked about it painted a very different picture. Likely the truth lay somewhere in between. For the first time since he had been ordered to Dacia by that sleazy bastard back in Rome, Rufinus found he was looking forward to pushing into this new and fascinating land.
V – Into Dacia
The week of training had gone by swiftly, though Rufinus’ initial exhilaration at his success soon faltered and died. Optio Daizus was a perfectly acceptable second in command in military terms, obedient and competent. But he was far from forthcoming, did not provide any support beyond that sought verbally or demanded of his position, and spent every waking moment glaring daggers into Rufinus. The young centurion had the constant feeling that the man was biding his time, waiting for some way to redress the balance as he saw it. The fact that his forehead had come up in a lump between the eyes and had gone purple-yellow did not help, for it was a constant reminder of his humiliation that he could hide from no one.
Initially, the rest of the century seemed to be taking to their new centurion well enough. That first day they’d been enthusiastic. The second day there had been less satisfaction on display, though Rufinus had put it down to exhaustion caused by his new regime. Day
three it became clear that this was not the case and, though he could not prove it, he was fairly sure that Daizus had been poisoning the minds of the men against him. Periodically he would stumble across the bruised optio with a group of legionaries and they would fall silent and glare until he passed out of earshot.
Day four was worse still. The weather changed and a chill filled the air, accompanied by regular rain showers that kept everything damp. He’d promised yet more wine as an incentive on pilum practice. Then, when he’d gone to draw the wine for the victors that afternoon, he had been refused and sent to the tribune, who informed him in no uncertain terms that he had to stop giving away supplies to the men. The wine store had shrunk alarmingly. Rufinus had had to go out into town, wrapped in a cloak against the rain, find a native merchant and buy expensive wine with his own diminishing funds. He’d given it to the men and they had waited until they thought he was gone and then burst out laughing. Apparently his upbraiding by the tribune had already become a joke.
Day five brought a new low. A full contubernium of men reported sick, pale and waxy, vomiting like mad as Rufinus gathered his men in the chilly, torrential rain for training. It came as no surprise to find that they were the men who had achieved the extra wine ration. The medicus had pronounced a mild case of poisoning, and Rufinus had gone to see his wine merchant only to be derided and refused a refund, even under hollow threat of prosecution. The tribune had dragged him in again and been scathing over his solution to the wine problem. The men had turned a little further against him. He heard through Cassius that his nickname was now Locusta, the name of a woman a century ago who had risen to infamy as Rome’s worst poisoner.
Day Six was sullen and wetter and colder still. The men did as they were told, but took every tiny opportunity to misread or misunderstand what they were told, to the very edge of insubordination. Rufinus slogged through the days now, rather than leaping into them hopefully. Day seven brought him ever lower. Two men had fled the fort, disappearing into the wilds of Dacia or Moesia. Deserters. Two. The only two in the whole cohort, and they were his men. The call to the tribune’s office had been no surprise. He felt the officer’s comments to be a little harsh and unfair, but it was impossible to argue with the facts of them. Day eight was something of a relief, since the preparations for departure occupied the whole cohort all day and there was little time for rebellion or trouble, and the rain left off for the whole day despite a lead-grey sky.
The only real relief that week came at each day’s end, when he developed the habit of twin visits.
First to Cassius to share wine and stories. Somehow, telling the veteran centurion of the successes of his military past somehow suppressed his current failures. Cassius continually tried to dole out advice, but there was little he could suggest that would make any real difference. In Cassius’ opinion, Rufinus had set the whole decline in motion when he floored Daizus. Whether there could have been a way to get the men on side before Daizus worked on them they would never know, and was now a moot point. Rufinus had asked Cassius in desperation what to do, but the veteran centurion’s only contribution was that he needed to find a way to bring the men back on side. Daizus was being careful. There was no evidence of wrongdoing, and so there was no way to take him officially to task for his evils. And to deal with it on a personal level would only expand on the trouble that had started it all. If Cassius had had control of the cohort, he’d have split the century up and transferred them into other units, bringing new men into Rufinus’ command, but the tribune would not countenance such a thing, especially with such new and untried legionaries. Rufinus would simply have to work it out, and in the meantime impose as much order as he could.
After a brief relaxing but unfulfilling drink with Cassius, he would visit Senova. This, he knew, was another aspect of his current situation that did not sit well with the men. A soldier could not legally marry and, though many soldiers kept a woman against the day they retired and could marry, those women had no official status and had to make their own life beyond the fort walls, travelling as a camp follower. Of course, since they were only in Drobeta temporarily, any women the veterans kept would have remained at Apulum. Rufinus having a woman who lived in the camp did not please many. But somehow in Senova’s company and with the comforting presence of Acheron, Rufinus actually relaxed for a time and maintained the vague feeling that things might still turn out right in the end.
He thought long and hard on how he could turn the men back to him, but in this situation there seemed no chance. If the opportunity ever presented itself, it would be on the journey. Perhaps in the battles to come? He did, after all, have a history of heroically saving people in war…
The cohort prepared.
Then came the ninth day – market day. The cohort rose at sunup, broke their fast and made everything ready, then moved out. To Rufinus’ relief, the men had neither the time nor the opportunity to cause trouble on the march. Better still, Rufinus could see a tiny grudging light of respect creep into the occasional face as they slogged along under the weight of their kit, while Rufinus, long-practiced, marched strong and steady alongside them. Most of the centurions were unburdened, leaving their kit in the carts at the rear. Rufinus had opted to carry his, partially due to the valuable nature of his personal effects, and partially due to the fact that he knew he could do it easily, and felt that setting an example might go a little way to repairing the damage done by Daizus’ tongue. It seemed he was right.
Perhaps Acheron, trotting along beside him with a lolling tongue, helped a little too.
Either way, after a noon break on the first day, Rufinus tested the water by starting up an old marching song from the Tenth that he believed was common across the legions. Half the men joined in straight away, then the rest as the ripples of song moved along the column, bringing the other centuries in.
That day heralded an end to the bad weather and the sky came out blue again, the sun sizzling and bringing out the hum of bees and the buzz of crickets. Birds sang. A positive mood infected the entire cohort. The column travelled slightly east of north and Rufinus pictured Senova’s map as they marched, counting off what landmarks he could spot.
The tribune knew his stuff, clearly, for the column was laid out in proper war form. Half a dozen scouts rode up to three miles ahead, repeatedly reporting back. Cassius Proculeianus and half his veteran century made up the vanguard, followed by Tribune Celer and his few staff on horseback. The rest of the centuries followed on, with the eight wagons and Senova’s carriage, driven inexpertly by the slave boy, Luca, behind. A rear-guard of the other half of Cassius’ men marched under their optio. From scouts to rear-guard the column was four miles long.
Since Drobeta the column had marched up into rolling hills. Rufinus had not appreciated how much they had climbed on the journey until noon when they’d stopped on a hill and he’d looked back to see Drobeta far below and behind, a small splat of darkness next to the turquoise Danuvius.
Some time in the mid-afternoon, the scouts announced that they had located an appropriate spot for the night. Rufinus had pondered their current position in relation to the map he had memorised and frowned. ‘Why here? Is there not a fort nearby?’
Cassius had nodded. ‘Ad Mutriam is a few miles to the south, but there was a large native settlement there. As soon as the troubles began the fort was slighted and the unit sent north to join the army there. Ad Mutriam is little more than a native town now.’
The senior centurion’s men moved on and began the task of fortifying. Once the other centuries had arrived shortly thereafter, the veterans had already marked out the site and begun work. Shovels and picks were drawn from packs across the cohort. The new recruits may not have been trained yet in engineering works, but they could still dig where they were told. Rufinus twitched at his perceived need to join in. He was not used to watching while other people worked, yet he forced himself to march up and down as his men dug and heaped soil. He tried to ignore the occasional me
ntion of Locusta as he passed.
The scouts had chosen well. This place, chosen for their first night, was at a meeting of small, seasonal rivers in a wide, shallow valley. One of the rivers had dried to barely a trickle, though the other was still a clean flow of water some eight feet wide. Where they met, though, the torrents had carved deep gulleys, providing natural defences on two sides and leaving the cohort only two ramparts to create.
By late afternoon the camp was fortified, the wagons had arrived and the rear-guard moved in. Hunters had been sent out and forage brought in to supplement the supplies in the wagons. Tents went up, latrines were dug and evening meals cooked.
The evening was sweaty and warm, and Rufinus retired once his men had dispersed to their tents, the last being Daizus who bade him a desultory good night and managed to hold off his sneer until Rufinus turned his back. The young centurion slept badly, sweating and uncomfortable in the stifling heat, the hills sheltering them and removing all possibility of a breeze.
The next morning as the men made ready to move again, Rufinus stood beside Cassius and watched in the burning light of the early sun.
‘Does Dacia ever make its mind up? Is it still spring, or is it summer?’
The veteran laughed. ‘Wait until we get into the mountains. It’s likely still winter there.’
Senova drifted through the camp as though she had every right to be there, drawing hungry leers from five hundred men as Luca carried her wash things. It looked to Rufinus as though, despite her stance on slavery, she was starting to look mighty comfortable having Luca around. Rufinus, determined to build on the slight improvement in morale, made sure that Daizus was kept busy with tasks that morning, while he took personal control of the men packing their gear. His belief that the optio was the poison in the unit was confirmed since the men worked well and even laughed as they toiled without the evil bastard around to infect them. For a brief, unpleasant, moment Rufinus wondered how it would change things if Daizus suddenly disappeared for good. Then an image of Scopius falling back with a cry into the aqueduct tank slid into his brain and he shook his head. His days of dealing with bullies like that were over. Never again. He would simply remove Daizus’ power over the men by trying to keep him busy and separate. His spirits rose a little when Cassius nodded his approval at the change and the tribune, out on his morning rounds, complimented Rufinus on his men’s work.
Eagles of Dacia Page 7