Eagles of Dacia

by S. J. A. Turney

  However, other aspects of the journey were less pleasant. The weather was clearly changing as they moved north into the higher mountains, and Dacia had apparently decided to abandon spring and summer altogether and move once more into winter, just as Cassius had predicted. The narrowness of the gorge cut the sunlight hours down to a minimum, and they spent much of the march in shade. Clouds had gathered from their first evening in the Carpates and had congregated every day thereafter. Rain had not yet fallen, but the temperature had steadily dropped such that each morning Rufinus was now shivering as he emerged from his tent.

  But the real worry, and the hate side of his love/hate relationship with the mountains, was the constant feeling of lurking danger. For the three nights they had travelled along the snaking mountain pass, they had been watched. Rarely did they spot the figures watching them from the hillsides, but even when they couldn’t, everyone could feel those eyes upon them. Guarded. Unfriendly.

  Rufinus had brought his concerns to Cassius, unwilling as yet to attempt social contact with the tribune after the incident with Acheron.

  ‘It feels as though we are trespassing on unfriendly lands.’

  Cassius had simply brushed it aside. ‘Mountain men.’

  ‘That doesn’t help.’

  ‘The mountain men are a different breed. Insular. Fragmented. They don’t congregate that well. They live in small villages and rarely see other human beings. Even in the days of the Dacian kings they were barely part of the kingdom. And they are a little unfriendly toward outsiders. But they’re not stupid. No matter how much they might resent a Roman column camping in what they consider their valley, they’re not daft enough to attack a whole cohort of men. I’ve heard of small patrols having trouble, but anything above a century will be perfectly safe. Try not to let them bother you.’

  Rufinus nodded uncertainly. Whatever the veteran said, he continued to be unsettled by the watching eyes of the mountain men, and every time a forage party disappeared into the woods to hunt animals or gather dead wood for the fires, he half expected them to disappear without trace.

  Then, on the fourth morning, when Cassius announced they were pretty much at the top of the pass and the cohort was taking down their tents and packing up, Rufinus strolled off into the trees beside the camp to urinate in private. The latrines were being backfilled, and he felt safe enough in the woods with Acheron at his heel.

  Finding a nice space with a small dip that would carry away the stream without washing it back down into the camp, he leaned his vitis against a tree and hoisted his tunic, pulled aside the subligaculum, and began to urinate with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Almapa,’ announced a gruff voice. Rufinus turned sharply, the spray arcing out gracefully across the pine needles and narrowly missing the speaker.

  ‘Kapas una!’

  Two men stood a few paces away, blessedly just out of the range of his urine, which clamped off and dried up instantly. Mountain men, clearly. Both were tightly wrapped in furs, with hair bound in braids and beards that hung down to their chests. They wore colourful hats with blunted points that sagged, and held axes that looked strong and sharp.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rufinus told them in slow Latin as he tucked himself away and flushed slightly, ‘but I don’t speak Dacian.’ His confidence grew a little as Acheron stepped in next to him.

  ‘Rabo ne kappa.’

  They did not look happy. On an impulse, Rufinus looked around to make sure he’d not pissed on someone’s shrine or vegetable patch or suchlike, but it appeared no different from any other part of the forest.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Senova’s accusation about Romans failing to learn about their subjugated peoples leapt into his memory rather unhelpfully.

  ‘Rabo! Rabo!’ The speaker lashed out sideways with his axe repeatedly, and despite his lack of comprehension, Rufinus knew instinctively that the man was telling him to go. The axe’s direction, as best he could tell, was upstream to the north.

  ‘I will,’ he nodded, trying to make placatory gestures with his hands. ‘I will rabo as fast as my legs will carry me.’

  He backed away and scurried down to the camp, keeping his eyes on the two locals who did not move, but stood, watching him leave.

  At the edge of the camp, he hurried over to his own men, who were assembling ready to leave. As he approached, he slowed and tried to calm his appearance. The faster they left this area the better, in Rufinus’ opinion.

  His nerves started to relax a little as they moved off and the morning march took them on up the pass. His straying gaze briefly caught sight of the two axe men watching them from a low bluff, and Rufinus vowed to learn a little of the language if he could. Misunderstandings might be dangerous with axe-wielding mountain men.

  Striding alongside the column, Rufinus felt more confident. He’d not heard the name Locusta bandied about since that night with the bed incident, and the men no longer fell silent as he passed by. There were perhaps half a dozen legionaries who still glared at him and clung to Daizus, and he had taken note of who they were. Seven unhappy men out of eighty no longer concerned him, though. Daizus had fallen into a sullen inactivity, making no further moves or comments to his centurion. Likely he had realised how his plan had fallen apart and set his own men against him. He would realise that any such further stupidity would only make Rufinus look better and he worse.

  And so things had settled for now.

  Late that morning they came across a landslide. They had seen the evidence of several such events on a small scale as they climbed the pass, but this one proved more of an obstacle, since it had brought down a huge tree that lay across the valley, blocking any potential passage for the vehicles. The tribune called for sappers, and Rufinus picked out the half dozen biggest men in his century and sent them forward with axes. Alongside similar men of other centuries, they set to work on the tree, and Rufinus was impressed with the speed and efficiency with which the soldiers demolished the great obstacle, gathering the pieces they hacked off and depositing them in one of the carts to use later as fire wood, and swinging the remains of the heavy trunk out into the river. In short order they were moving again.

  As noon approached, they came across a settlement where the valley widened, the river winding in a wide loop. A score of houses, surrounded by paddocks, orchards and animal pens sat beside the rough trail. Rufinus almost laughed as the cohort approached, for the opportunistic salesman in the natives suddenly came to the fore. Far from the axe-wielding unfriendlies he had met that morning, these locals hurried from their houses, setting up quick, makeshift trestle tables beside the road. By the time the vanguard reached the first house, the tables were laden with fruit, honey, vegetables, meat and various other goods, right down to woollen hats and heavy native trousers.

  Rufinus decided it was time to risk speaking to the commander, and hurried forward.

  The tribune turned as Rufinus appeared beside his horse. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Respectfully, sir, the men are due a meal break soon. It might do the cohort’s spirits good to allow them some free time here and the liberty to purchase goods?’

  Celer frowned for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very good.’ He turned and waved at Cassius and the rider with the vanguard. ‘Call the rest of the scouts back for an hour and pass the orders. We halt here. The men can rest on the grass and are at liberty to trade with the natives.’

  Cassius smiled and hurried off to pass the orders on.

  Moments later the column was halting and men were drinking from flasks, retrieving bread from their packs, and flooding the tables, purchasing various goods. Rufinus crossed to one of the trestles and recognised two of his own century there. They were haggling in what sounded like the Dacian tongue he’d been hearing.

  His gaze picked over the table. He peered at the hats, scarves and trousers. Remembering the cold of the morning, he wondered whether Celer would be relaxed enough about uniform to allow him a pair of those woollen trousers. They looked a great deal warm
er than the thin breeches he currently wore. No. He’d not get away with that. A scarf, though…

  He pointed at a scarf that was a sort of russet-orange colour with a thin yellow check thread throughout that he might get away with in uniform. The villager said something sharp and unintelligible and held up six fingers. Six what? Rufinus frowned and watched as she turned to serve one of the legionaries, who handed her three copper ases and walked off looking happy with a new drinking cup.

  Fishing around in his pouch, Rufinus retrieved six copper coins and held them out hopefully, pointing at the scarf. The woman smiled and nodded, taking the coins. Rufinus lifted the scarf and left the stall, feeling the material as he pulled it through his fingers. It was an excellent piece of work and would certainly make cold mornings more bearable. Briefly, he again considered the trousers, but then pictured the tribune’s face when he saw them and decided they were not an option.

  Acheron made his presence known with a rumbling, and Rufinus paused at one of the stalls, purchasing some non-specific meat. He asked what it was but was no wiser when answered, and decided that Acheron was not a fussy eater, since he would happily munch on bandits given the opportunity.

  Two stalls along, he bought a jar of honey, a loaf of fresh bread and a small pot of butter. They were not cheap, as he’d expect to pay in a town market, but they were fresh and clearly of good quality, so he let the locals fleece him with good grace. Back on the grass, he found a protruding rock and sat on a corner of it before deciding it was too cold and uncomfortable. With a smile, he took his prize over to the carts and found Senova and Luca sitting on the carriage bench. Luca had purchased some fruit for his mistress, and Senova offered Rufinus strawberries, cherries and slices of melon from a wooden bowl. He gratefully picked at them as he shuffled onto the bench and sawed at the loaf with his eating knife, spreading butter and honey on a slice and passing it to Senova. He then repeated the process for himself. As he ate happily, he gradually became aware that Senova was looking at him. He turned into the hard glare and frowned a question. Her eyes dipped to Luca.

  Ah yes. The slave. Now Rufinus the centurion had been lowered to preparing food for a slave. With a sigh, he cut another slice and spread the butter and honey on it, passing it to Luca, who took it with surprise and delight.

  He turned at the calling of his name and saw Cassius Proculeianus strolling over toward them, a bottle in his hand.

  ‘Rufinus, here. Try this.’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘I try to save wine ‘til evening these days. I’m sparing with it.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Cassius replied. ‘One day, you’ll tell me why, I imagine. But try it anyway.’

  Rufinus shrugged and reached out, taking the heavy, earthenware bottle. He unstoppered it and lifted it to his lips. Before he could think of taking a drink, a sharp, acidic smell assailed him and he felt his nose hairs curling away from the scent in protest.

  ‘What the shit is this?’ he breathed, moving it away from his mouth.

  ‘Try it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be trying to kill me for any reason?’

  ‘Try it, Rufinus.’

  Wincing, the young centurion lifted the bottle and took a tiny, experimental sip. The contents of the bottle appeared to be a slightly fruit-flavoured liquid fire that seared the inside of his throat and burned off his taste buds. His eyes widened and he made a choking sound as he thrust the bottle back at his fellow centurion. Beside him, Luca looked hopeful.

  ‘Trust me,’ he rasped to the slave, ‘you don’t want to.’

  He turned back to Cassius, who was grinning. ‘How much did they pay you to take that stuff away?’

  The veteran laughed. ‘You get used to it. It’s pretty much the only way to get through a Dacian winter with your wits intact. It’s plum spirit. The locals all make it in their gardens. It’s said that one of the Dacian kings had some liver complaint and couldn’t drink wine, so he burned all the vineyards in Dacia so that no one else could enjoy it. His people couldn’t face life without booze, so they made it from other fruit. They’ve been making it ever since. Puts hairs on your chest.’

  ‘And burns them off other places, I reckon,’ Rufinus replied, running his sore tongue around the inside of his seared mouth.

  The cohort tarried for an hour at that unnamed village, and Rufinus could almost feel the goodwill growing between the troops and the locals as they traded. Finally the calls were put out and the centuries rose, gathered their kit and assembled by tent party. The locals cleared away their unsold goods and began to take apart the temporary tables. A quarter of an hour later the cohort was moving on and there was little evidence that the village had ever played host to them. The afternoon brought them, as Cassius had promised, to the heights of the pass, the valley still deep, but the climb levelling out. There they camped for the night in the lee of a craggy cliff, Senova’s carriage pulled up with the horses and her, Luca and Acheron safely nestled within.

  The tribune had graciously allowed the setting of camp without the usual fortifications once again. The ground was too hard to contemplate a ditch and a rampart, and they relied instead on a double watch all around, covering the northern and southern approaches where they nestled between the cliff and the river.

  Barely had the tents gone up before the weather finally made its presence felt. The clouds that had been gathering ominously for the past few days began to drop snow. Not the fluffy, light snow that delighted children, either. This was wet, heavy sleet that battered the ground and felt like a slap when it hit you in the face. The wind began to howl down the valley and carried the wet snow almost sideways, making it very difficult to find shelter outside, and the men retreated to their tents early, eating cold food inside, in the absence of cook fires. Cassius dropped in to Rufinus’ tent with his bottle of liquid magma, but Rufinus declined, sipping cold fruit juice from a skin while the veteran repeatedly assailed his body with his bottle of spirit.

  ‘We should go and see Senova,’ Rufinus said eventually. ‘Check on her. I’ve not seen her since we made camp.’

  ‘You go outside now and you’ll be drenched,’ Cassius said. ‘I got soaked in the twenty paces between our tents.’

  Rufinus nodded. He felt for the poor bastards out there on watch, wrapped tight in cloaks that would only take a dozen heartbeats to become sodden in this weather. It was hard now to picture the weather less than a week ago when he’d lay sweating in his tent, half naked and wishing it were cooler. Where was that benighted sun when he actually needed it?

  ‘What’s in store for the next few days then?’ asked Rufinus.

  ‘We’re on the plateau now. We drop a little once we leave the river, and pick up the local trade trail from the east. The road will get better then as we move out into the hills. We’ll be near the true Dacian heartland by the end of tomorrow, close to their ancient fortresses. Depending on what pace the tribune decides to set it’s one more day, maybe two, across the hills to Sarmizegetusa. Then, we face the Sarmatians and hope that what we’ve taught this lot is enough to get us through without too much blood lost.’

  Rufinus nodded. Three more days, then.

  A sudden crash cut through their conversation and Rufinus’ heart leapt. The din had been close and like nothing he’d ever heard before. Like a mountain falling over. Cassius was on his feet within a heartbeat and running out into the darkness and the snow. Rufinus exited moments later and his stomach churned at the sight awaiting him.

  A section of the camp was a scene of utter destruction. A small area of hillside above had slid from the cliff and dropped on the cohort, bringing two medium-sized pine trees with it. Rufinus realised with dismay that the landslide had struck the tents of two different centuries, and that some of them had been his.

  Men were rushing toward the carnage now as legionaries staggered from the rubble and earth, clutching broken limbs and swaying wildly. Rufinus ran over to the nearest, recognising the man who had bought a new cup that very morning, now clutching a
n arm than hung at an odd angle. Rufinus checked him over briefly. His head was drenched in red from a large cut on his scalp, and his arm had been dislocated rather than broken. He would live, and probably be fine with adequate ministrations from a medicus. Fortunately there was a medicus, as well as a couple of orderlies and at least four capsarii among the unit. He’d seen them back at Drobeta when he’d inadvertently poisoned his century.

  Leaving the man to wander to safety, Rufinus reached a collapsed tent and could hear moaning from inside. A branch as thick as his leg lay across the tent, anchored there with the weight of the tree to which it was attached, pinning down the trapped legionaries. A soldier was running toward him, a saw in one hand and an axe in the other. Rufinus grabbed him as he passed and swept the axe up, rushing over to the tree’s trunk. There, he began to hack at the join. Cassius took the man with the saw and ran off to another beleaguered tent.

  Rufinus chopped and cut repeatedly at the offending branch, his muscles burning with the effort even as the freezing sleet battered him, soaking him to the skin and plastering his hair to his forehead. Finally, after what felt like hours, he felt the limb separate and hauled on the heavy branch, shoving it from the tent. Moments later he was at the leather structure, dragging it and lifting it to relieve the weight on whoever was trapped. Two figures emerged, dazed and staggering, from the tent. One had a broken arm and the other was covered head to foot with blood. Neither was in good condition, but they were both walking. More than could be said for one of their tent mates, whose legs Rufinus could see amid the mess, motionless.

  Three legionaries arrived from somewhere and began to help lifting the debris from the tent and searching inside for others as a capsarius turned up and began to examine wounds, directing them to various locations depending upon the severity of their injuries. Rufinus moved on. The same tree’s heavy bole had struck three tents directly. The men inside had stood little chance and he couldn’t imagine there being survivors there. Further on, he found another tent, half-intact, half crushed by the fallen earth that rose above it in a mound. A legionary he did not recognise arrived and began to push the mound of earth away with a mattock. Two more were there a moment later, joining in, and Rufinus took the opportunity to push his way into the half-intact tent.