Eagles of Dacia

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Why aren’t they coming?’ asked one of the legionaries nearby.

  Rufinus, his eyes still on the slope ahead, replied over his shoulder. ‘They need open ground to operate. They couldn’t attack us effectively down here.’

  The cohort moved into the unnamed village. Signs of violent destruction were evident, though less gruesome than Rufinus had expected. Doors had been torn open and houses ransacked. Families’ possessions lay strewn in the street, and a few bodies were visible among them, cut down. But some of the mess, both human and material, was clearly quite old. This village had been hit more than once by the raiders, and little had been left to loot this time. A few people had bothered reinhabiting it, and those intrepid folk had paid the price. With that knowledge, Rufinus suddenly realised that the villa had probably been looted weeks ago too. This was just an opportunistic strike by raiders who were running out of fresh targets. It struck Rufinus that, left alone for a little longer, the raiders would probably leave of their own accord. South and east the terrain became too mountainous and forested for cavalry, and north would bring them dangerously close to the legion’s home fortress. Once they had run out of pickings here, and it seemed that was already the case, they would be left with little option but to return west to their own lands, or attempt to settle, as those at Sarmizegetusa had for all the good it had done them.

  The tribune would not allow that, though. Quite apart from his superior’s orders to take out these small pockets of Sarmatians, there was also now his personal fury at the desecration of a Roman villa. Once again there would be no quarter given. Images of flayed bodies popped into Rufinus’ mind’s eye.

  The cohort crossed the timber bridge in the village, each man picking up the pace as he traversed the stream, horribly aware that it was at such choke-points that the worst of defeats occurred, hobnailed boots slipping and skittering on the soaked wood. Still, the Sarmatian horsemen remained atop the slope, the danger awaiting the cohort in open ground. As they passed between two long-empty houses and moved out into the field behind, where the slope began, reaching up toward the villa, Cassius called the orders for formation.

  ‘Three columns of two centuries in five lines. Nicostratus, you have the left, Modestus the right. I have the centre. Wings, prepare for harrying cavalry, front ranks prepare for contra equitas at the first charge.’

  Rufinus wondered how much of that had flown over the heads of the new recruits. Hopefully enough had stuck to make this a sensible fight. As they began to climb the lower edge of the slope, the column reformed so that three centuries marched to the front and three behind, each formed with five rows of sixteen men, giving an initial wall of forty eight shields to face the enemy. Rufinus found himself commanding the central force to the rear, with Daizus the last man in the column. The Sarmatians began to whoop and bellow now, and Tribune Celer, mounted safely at the centre of the cohort, frowned.

  ‘There are fewer than I thought. This should not be too difficult.’

  A low rumble announced the beginning of the onslaught. Rufinus had heard the thunder of hooves in a charge more than once in his time, and still found it as sphincter-loosening as the very first time. He listened as they moved slowly up the slope, feet slipping on the soaked turf and wet mud, trying to estimate distance, and suddenly Rufinus found himself far away in both place and time, above the Danuvius in Pannonia a decade ago, waiting for the first crash of the horsemen hitting his century. He’d been a new recruit, not much more experienced than these men, and had stood in the second line, listening to the thunder orf horses, dreading what was to come, in a cold sweat and with fear prickling his skin.

  He blinked, his reveries swept away as Tribune Celer bellowed the order for contra equitas, echoed by the front three centurions. Those on either side of Rufinus at the rear simply gave the order to halt, knowing that five rows of men in front with a wide shield wall would take the blow from the riders’ charge.

  But Rufinus knew differently now. He remembered that battle in Pannonia all those years ago. Thank all the gods for the memory of that battle.

  ‘Rear ranks turn. Form contra equitas!’

  The surprise around him was palpable. The other two rear centurions said nothing, their men standing still, dithering uncertainly.

  ‘Do it,’ bellowed Rufinus.

  Even Daizus snapped into action at the urgency and blatant power of command in Rufinus’ voice, and the other two centurions were suddenly repeating his command.

  Everything happened at once, then. The Iazyges’ lances hit the contra equitas formation. The legionaries under Cassius’ expert guidance were packed tight behind shields, second line bracing the first, all the front three ranks with pila held firm like an iron hedge above the shields. Most riders shied away before such a sight, and even if the riders continued a suicidal charge into the deadly points, their horses would generally refuse. The Sarmatians, though, were horse people, bred in the saddle and they knew both their own capability and predictable Roman tactics. Their lances were long enough that even before the horses halted just outside the range of the pila, they managed to drive home blows into the men behind the shields. The effect was impressive in its horror. Legionaries died in the press, some of the lances punching even through shields and into the men behind them, such was their strength and momentum. But with Cassius’ dense formation, the line held even despite the deaths, and the Iazyges were denied the results of a successful charge. Had they managed to break the shield wall, they would now be in among the soldiers, chopping and hewing with their swords. Instead, they were snarling and fighting desperately over the Roman shields, more riders dying than infantry.

  Rufinus, of course, could pay precious little attention to what was going on at the front. He had his own trouble. Just as he’d expected from his memory of the battle in Pannonia a decade ago, a second wave of riders had appeared from the flank. While the cohort had been in the village, concentrating on crossing the stream, a group of riders had peeled off and skirted the open area wide, ready to fall on the unprepared rear of the Roman formation.

  They charged up the gentle slope as the rear centuries were still struggling to fall into formation.

  ‘Quickly!’ bellowed Rufinus.

  The second attack hit them even while the first was being hard fought at the front line. The riders charged up the gentle incline, churning the wet turf, and hit the rear centuries before they were fully braced. The only thing that saved the Romans was a simple matter of angles. The attackers were charging uphill, and consequently their lances were at shield height for the defenders and the momentum slightly less than their cousins up the slope. A few lances pierced shields and drew screams from dying and wounded legionaries behind, but many were turned and rendered ineffective.

  Rufinus, in the press, caught the eye of one of his fellow centurions along the line, who nodded his thanks for the timely warning. Had Rufinus not predicted the second prong of the attack, the Sarmatians would have butchered many soldiers and now be among them, hacking the centuries to pieces. It was odd for the centurions to be at the rear of the fight because of the change in direction, and for the optios to be leading the fray, but there was little anyone could do about it now.

  The initial charge spent, the Sarmatians, mostly armoured light in furs and leather, a few in chain or scale, abandoned their lances and drew straight, ring-pommelled blades, laying into the cohort in a frenzied melee, their wild hair and even wilder beards slapping around wetly in the rain. The legionaries fought back, jabbing and lunging rather inexpertly with their pila until the weapons became bent and useless, then drawing their own swords and joining the struggle.

  Rufinus felt a momentary pride and confidence. He had worried unduly about his largely untested men. Yes, they had been rather slow at gathering into formation, and that had cost them a few lives. Yes, they needed a lot more training before those pila found good targets among the enemy. But they had survived a Sarmatian charge and were giving as good as they got now.
And at the most brutal level of strategy, it occurred to Rufinus that there were only a hundred a fifty or so of them. Even if every death was reciprocated, they outnumbered the enemy enough to be fairly sure of victory. An unpleasant calculation to make, but a necessary one.

  Disaster came in the form of a rider simply chancing his luck. Some unseen Sarmatian in the press lifted his arm, still bearing his lance, and threw it like a javelin. Given the length and weight of the thing he must have had arms like Hercules, for the great missile arced up and over the shield wall, deep into the Roman lines. Rufinus saw it coming at the last moment and experienced a moment of frozen panic that he was a dead man, but the missile dropped at the end, its momentum spent, and plunged deep into the man in front of Rufinus. The tip of the weapon punched through the legionary’s torso, ripping out through his back and sending shreds of chain and leather everywhere, plunging into the turf so close to Rufinus that it rook a sliver of leather from his left boot.

  The result was catastrophic and entirely chance-driven. The impaled, screaming man fell, sword lost, reaching fingers clawing for his mates. As he went down, so did the men to either side, and the man in front, legs swept out from beneath him, plunged forward too. The pressure of falling men, combined with the immense slipperiness of the wet slope played its dreadful part and a whole slew of legionaries collapsed to the turf. As the falling reached the front line, and the men facing the riders collapsed, so the horsemen, whooping, took advantage and rode over the fallen legionaries, in among the century. Their swords rose and fell and the men fought back desperately. Rufinus found himself being pushed forward as Cassius’ century still fought hard up the slope, and he leapt forth, skidding and slipping on the grass, planting his feet between men struggling to stand, until he reached the first horseman. His sword ripped out with precision – this was about regaining control, not clean kills. The blade cut neither horse nor man, but leather strap, tearing through the girth. The saddle this Sarmatian used was very similar in style to the Roman ‘horned’ variety, and Rufinus knew just how unstable it could be unless strapped properly into place. He remembered slipping from his horse on that fatal hunt in Hispania, all because he’d not done up his girth strap properly…

  The result was predictably satisfying. The Sarmatian, with a strangely high pitched squawk, tipped from the horse, gravity pulling him down to the side he was leaning with the sword. With a roar of triumph, those men still struggling to their feet began to lay into the fallen warrior. Some bright spark further forward had obviously seen what Rufinus had done and repeated the procedure on the next rider, sending him down into the mess, though taking a sword in the back as he did so. Rufinus pushed his way toward the front past confused and directionless horses, legionaries struggling back to their feet, and trampled bodies. As he reached the main bulk of the fighting, he caught a sword blow and turned it, shoulder-barging the dismounted rider and preparing to deal with him, only to see another legionary’s sword slam into the man.

  They were back in control and gaining the upper hand now. The gap in the line closed, men back up on their feet and two confused horses moving through the press. Rufinus found himself among the beleaguered front line, turning blades, ducking swipes and lancing out where he could at man or horse in an attempt to bring both down. At one point during the struggle, he found himself face to face with Daizus and actually suspected that the optio was going to lunge at him. Then, at the last moment, the man turned and stabbed a nearby horse. Rufinus joined in, and together they brought down horse and rider.

  The blow that ended Rufinus’ battle came entirely unseen. Something struck the back of his helmet in the middle of the fray and the sheer power drove his wits from him in the blink of an eye. The din of battle receded and all he could hear was a whiny ringing. His eyesight blurred, and he fell. He could see Daizus in front of him, still struggling with another rider, and in desperation he reached out to the optio, both he and Daizus falling now, collapsing to the wet turf. Rufinus’ head felt as though he’d pushed it through a pin hole.

  He knew he was slipping into unconsciousness. The black came to claim him, and as he and Daizus flailed on the floor, he on his way out while the optio struggled to regain his feet and rejoin the fight, something fascinating struck Rufinus. He just hoped he would remember it later. And that there would be a later for him to remember it in.

  Rufinus awoke in utter confusion. For a moment he experienced a real panic that he had gone blind, but then he started to pick out muted details. He was in a room in the dark. He could discern the shutters of a window, though the very dim silvery glow suggested that it was dark outside too. The room smelled of olives and spiced food.

  His head hurt. A lot. He tried to turn slightly on the bed and the movement almost made him throw up. He felt around the back of his head. His hair was matted and there was a spot that spent waves of agony through him and stars across his vision when he touched it. He slumped back and groaned.

  A door opened. He couldn’t see it, but he heard it well enough, now that the ringing had gone.

  ‘Gnaeus?’

  Relief. Utter relief. ‘Senova. Where am I?’

  ‘In the former procurator’s house in Ulpia Traiana,’ she replied softly. ‘Wait.’

  There were busy noises and soon two oils lamps sprang into life, illuminating the room in a warm, comfortable golden glow. The place was well-appointed and wealthy as would befit the man who used to live here, when the city was the capital and its owner was the second most powerful man in the province.

  ‘My head.’

  ‘Yes. The medicus said there was no permanent physical damage he could find. As long as you woke up coherent, he said you should be back on your feet tomorrow and fighting fit a day or two later. The tribune wanted to keep you in the town’s hospital, where you could be constantly observed, but it was the medicus’ opinion that you would be better off in comfortable seclusion. The leader of the town’s ordo offered you his guest room, what with you being a hero.’

  ‘Hero?’ he managed groggily.

  ‘Your men carried you back on a stretcher so you didn’t get bumped in a cart. It seems the general consensus is that you saved the rear centuries from disaster twice. You might even have stopped them losing the battle.’

  Bumped. His men. Yes. ‘We won?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t heard much about casualties and the like, but it seems you won decisively. About forty Sarmatians were brought back in ropes and sold to the slavers in town. One of your legionaries is waiting outside the door, even in the rain, to find out if you’re well. I shall have to tell him to pass on the good word.’

  ‘Where is Daizus?’

  Senova frowned. ‘I last saw him with Tribune Celer. The tribune was invited to a victory banquet with the town’s ordo.’

  Daizus and the tribune? There could be no good reason for that pairing. ‘The boot was his.’

  ‘Daizus?’

  Rufinus nodded. ‘I saw it in the fight. His boot has that triangular leather patch that matches the footprints outside the house at Sarmizegetusa. It was him who was listening outside. I sort of suspected that, anyway. But now I know. Daizus knows that I’m here with orders to spy on Albinus and Niger. And if he’s busy with the tribune, I think we can assume that the tribune now knows. And that means that as soon as we get to Apulum, so will Clodius Albinus. My whole mission, such as it is, is teetering on the edge. A man I hate expects results. A man I was sent to investigate believes me to work for the man I hate. I would dearly love to try and bring Albinus and Niger into my confidence and try to recruit them into my side of the game, but that is starting to look increasingly unlikely, thanks to Daizus and his wagging ears.’

  Senova placed a soothing hand on his forehead. ‘Stop worrying about it. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Soon we’ll be in Apulum, and what will be, will be.’

  Rufinus nodded slightly, and the activity made him feel ill again. Rest. He couldn’t afford to be out for two days. He had t
o be fighting fit tomorrow. In this province, anything could happen.

  X – Blood and gold

  Micia was not beleaguered as the tribune had apparently been led to believe. The cohort had expected to arrive to find the fort and its small civil settlement under Sarmatian occupation as Sarmizegetusa had been, and none of them had relished the thought of what that meant: attacking a Roman fort with all its excellent defensive measures. Even manned by out of place Sarmatians, it would be a tough proposition, with a high cost in men. In the event, though, Micia was safe.

  The cohort had travelled back east from Ulpia Traiana for a short distance, then northward along a wide basin between the mountains, ending their first day at the small spa town of Aquae. Oddly, given that the place lay firmly at the centre of the troubled region, with Sarmizegetusa a day to the east, Ulpia Traiana the same to the south-west and Micia a day north-west, the small spa town had managed to remain completely untouched and undisturbed by raiders since the initial push had been driven back by the Thirteenth. It struck Rufinus as odd to see life going on peacefully and prosperously here, while around it lay occupied fortresses, burned out villages and bands of vicious Iazyges. It was a welcome stop, particularly given that the weather had improved immeasurably and, despite a couple of bursts of drizzle during the morning, the sun had come out in due course and begun to dry and warm the land. The chance to rest in comfort and use the baths in rotation was greeted warmly by the men, and Rufinus, who had ridden in Senova’s carriage all day at the insistence of the medical staff, was quite grateful for a civilised rest for the evening.

  By the next morning, he was already feeling a lot better, as long as he didn’t probe the back of his head too carelessly, for it was still painful to the touch. But the sickness and dizziness was gone, and he ate a hearty breakfast before the cohort moved on, waving aside medical protests and marching with his century once more. He had enjoyed the company of Senova the previous day, but leaving his men for too long solely in the company of Optio Daizus could have catastrophic effects on their outlook.