Still, he was less worried about Senova’s safety now. Daizus may still be trouble, and the tribune he was unsure of, but the men of his century had become firmly his near Ulpia Traiana, and he was now sure they would never move against the lady in the carriage. In fact, he felt secure enough with her safety that Acheron now padded alongside him on the march.
The second day took them north across that flat basin and then, when they reached the wide and powerful Marisus River, they followed it downstream into a wide valley between misty blue mountains. All day as they travelled the temperature rose, the last tatters of high white cloud in the sky tearing apart and dissipating, leaving a hot cohort of sweating men and rising white dust beneath hundreds of tramping feet, the tempting cool waters of the great river running close by.
Micia was, it appeared, thriving. Rufinus greeted the sight of the place with some surprise. The way Celer and the other veterans spoke of it, it had sounded like a military frontier fort, guarding one of the main routes into Dacia from Iazyges lands along the Marisus River. But it was clearly much more than that. The fort itself was a large example, stretching from the river across the valley in a more elongated shape than usual. The civilian settlement, bordered along two sides by the fort and the river, was perhaps a quarter of a mile across, and was far from the rough stone and timber constructions of the temporary settlements usually found around frontier forts. Micia was a prosperous place in its own civil right, adorned with several large buildings, bath houses, an amphitheatre and temples, red roofs rising from walls of brick and stone, plastered and whitewashed. A port on the riverbank seemed extremely busy.
Moreover the streets were filled with locals going about their daily business, much as they had found at Aquae but, all the more surprisingly, since Micia had been one of the cohort’s targets to deal with pockets of Sarmatian resistance. The column marched to the edge of the town, down by the river, and was set there making camp while the tribune took his staff and his two veteran centurions through the town and to the fort.
News of the cohort’s arrival had clearly filtered through the town quickly for, as the small party of officers approached the fort’s east gate, the doors were already open and a man in a senior officer’s uniform stood in the archway with a centurion and a couple of his men. The wall top was dotted with soldiers in gleaming bronze scale armour, pointed helmets and bows slung over their shoulder. Rufinus and the others straightened slightly, automatically trying to make the best impression, given that they were the elite soldiers in this region, visiting an auxiliary installation. Acheron padded to a halt by Rufinus’s side, drawing anxious looks from some of the soldiers.
Micia was neat and well-maintained, and its occupants seemed much the same.
‘Prefect Marcus Cornelius Stratonicus, Second Flavia Commagenorum, commanding Micia,’ the officer announced in strong tones.
‘Senior Tribune Appius Iulius Celer, Thirteenth Gemina Legion, Prefect. Good to meet you.’
The two men shook hands, and Rufinus had to suppress a smile as he watched the pair attempting to squeeze the life out of each other, each determined to demonstrate the strongest hand shake. Finally, as if by mutual acceptance of defeat, they let go, both clasping hands behind their backs.
‘I was led to believe that a group of Sarmatian raiders was at work in this area, Prefect. The governor assigned my cohort to suppress the troubles.’
Stratonicus made a pfft noise, which seemed to irritate Celer. ‘There have been raiders in this area, but they now keep to the hills north of here. Once or twice they have ventured close to Micia, but the Second Flavia could put out a sparrow’s eye with a single arrow. They soon learned not to bother the Pagus Miciensis. There were a little more than a hundred of them when they first came, and we killed a quarter of their number without leaving the walls.’
‘So you have done nothing to bring them to heel?’ asked Celer, acidly.
‘Our task is to guard the Marisus valley and keep control of the Pagus Miciensis, not to hunt rag-tag bands of Iazyges in the hills, Tribune. Should we commit to such an action, we would be forced to leave the valley undefended and abandon the reason for our assignment here in the first place.’
The two men were engaged in a game of one-upping each other, and Rufinus would like nothing more than to interrupt them and move the conversation on, but could see no way to do it without stirring up further trouble.
‘And you did not think it worthwhile to detach a unit to deal with them?’ Celer asked.
‘Archers make very good defenders, Tribune. Put my men on a tower and no barbarian will come within spear-cast. But archers are hardly suited to scouring the mountains and overcoming cavalry. That would be a job for legionaries, I would say.’
Celer bristled.
‘Clearly not for a group of auxiliaries. True.’
A cloud of seething resentment boiled between the two men for a while until Cassius coughed politely. ‘Perhaps, Prefect, you could give us the latest intelligence you have on the raiders?’
Without tearing his hawk-like gaze from the tribune, Stratonicus nodded. ‘I believe they are operating in the valley up near Fassus, around five miles north of the river. They seem to be quite happy there, picking on the occasional gold wagon and lining their pockets.’
Celer almost exploded. ‘They are harrying the gold shipments and you’re doing nothing about it?’
Again, Stratonicus shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Gold shipments are not our problem. The mines are all privately owned, and they pay for their own guards. I’m not about to put my men at risk to help some fat oligarch from Rome pay for an extra statue in his atrium.’
The tribune was making faintly strangled noises. Without warning, his arm shot out, his grip closing on the prefect’s windpipe, nails digging into the flesh. Stratonicus’ eyes bulged in shock and he gasped.
‘Listen to me you provincial piece of shit,’ the tribune hissed, pushing the man backward, still gripping his throat. The auxiliary centurion and his men looked startled, halfway between leaping to their prefect’s defence and backing away deferentially. A senior legionary tribune was not a man to cross without good reason, after all. ‘You take your little eastern archer boys and shut yourself up in that fort. I will take my men and remove the local threat, secure the gold routes, and then return tomorrow. When I do, I heartily recommend that you be absent on some trivial matter, for if I lay eyes on you again, I might just do this again and keep squeezing until my fingers meet.’
He let go of Stratonicus and the prefect fell back, gasping. Without another word, Celer turned to his two veteran centurions. ‘Stop the men making camp. We can cover five miles and deal with these rats before dark, then make camp near this Fassus place. Go.’
Rufinus shared a look with Cassius, and the two centurions saluted and turned, jogging off with their half dozen legionaries back to the camp site. As he left, Rufinus glanced over his shoulder long enough to see Celer standing with his hand on his sword hilt, and wondered momentarily whether the tribune might actually draw it and maim another senior officer.
An hour later, the cohort were across the river, having commandeered sufficient boats from the dock for the purpose. The tribune had rejoined them at some point during the crossing with a look of vicious satisfaction, and again Rufinus wondered whether he’d been tempted to draw blood. The wagons and support, including Senova’s carriage, had been left at Micia with a single century of men to guard them. It seemed the tribune did not trust the local garrison even to do that effectively.
Still, the cohort was moving off into the hills before long, the sun now beginning to slide from the sky. Rufinus was a little concerned that the tribune had been driven to making an impetuous decision. It seemed foolish to be marching into the unknown to face an enemy while the sun began its descent, leaving a very real possibility of camping in a dark valley filled with unseen foes. At least Senova was safe in Micia. He recalled suddenly the words of Cassius back in Sarmizegetusa, when the cen
turion had voiced the worry that Celer might make rash decisions and cause trouble if unchecked. Rufinus was beginning to see Cassius’ point.
The valley to which the tribune directed them followed a small, winding river north, passing repeatedly through gaps between spurs of hills and each time opening out into wide flat basins. The going was easy, and there were signs that this valley was used to regular traffic. The rough road they followed showed traces of wheel ruts from many wagons, and horse manure, old and dry, lay here and there. The small river became gradually narrower until it was little more than a stream. They passed half a dozen small hamlets, each engaged in arable farming, and enquired of news of the raiders at each place. It seemed the prefect had been quite right. The locals confirmed that the Sarmatians were operating near this Fassus place, and were far more concerned with the gold trail than bothering with poor Dacian villages, which suited the locals fine.
The sun had just vanished behind the western ridges when the cohort came to Fassus, the light beginning to acquire that indigo tone of early evening. Just as the farmers in the last village had said, Fassus was little more than a junction and a market place with a few houses. It sat upon the eastern slope of the valley, where a small side vale branched off. The main road along the valley there met another smaller track coming from the east, both roads converging and bringing gold shipments through Fassus to continue south to Micia and the Marisus River.
Mute evidence of the regular raids was visible on the cohort’s approach. Half a dozen wagons sat idle at the edge of the village, their gleaming burdens gone, their beasts detached and drivers and guards also gone, presumably dead. There was no sign of natives. No sign of life at all, in fact.
As the cohort moved into the tiny village, Celer dispatched north and east his scouts, who had been kept close throughout much of the journey. There was no doubt that this place had played host to the Iazyges raiders for some time. Of the natives or the wagon crews there was no sign, but the houses were being lived in by men who treated them as little more than temporary hovels, littering, ravaging, and urinating in the corner, judging by the ammonia smell emerging from each doorway.
The two places that had been well-maintained were a large corral and a single shed with a huge, impressive lock. As the centuries were moved into position in the village, Rufinus and Cassius smashed the lock and threw open the shed. Its contents made Rufinus’ breath catch in his throat. Inside were twelve small chests, one open and displaying its innards. There was enough gold in this one shed to pay the cohort until retirement day.
Rufinus and Cassius examined the ingots. They each bore two stamps – one the mark of the mine and its owner, one Nymphidius Barus, and the other the stamp of the Dacian procurator, signifying that this gold was now owned by the state and bound for the imperial coffers.
‘How does this gold mining system work?’ Rufinus mused, turning over one of the ingots, feeling a thrill of excitement.
‘The mine owners are concessions,’ Cassius replied. ‘They come from Rome or from the greater cities and buy the right to mine off the state. The gold and the land belong to Rome, but the mine belongs to the individual. The state acquires the mined gold, but the owners take a share, making their fortune in the process. The mines here are small and generally poor. This must represent half a year’s work, I suspect. Wait until you see Alburnus Maior. That’s the centre of mining, and the hub for two major transport routes.’
‘This is a small amount?’ Rufinus whispered.
Cassius laughed. ‘You think Rome came to Dacia for the weather?’
Further conversation was impossible, for suddenly the cadence of the cornu honked outside, calling the cohort to arms. Rufinus and Cassius dropped the gold, jammed on their helmets and hurried back outside, pausing only to shut the door. As they hurried into the square, where Celer and his musician stood with two clerks, Rufinus could see the distant figures of horsemen along the valley, racing toward them.
‘It appears we have taken their base from them while they were out raiding,’ the tribune said with a great deal of satisfaction. ‘We have their gold?’
Rufinus and Cassius nodded. ‘Plenty of it, all in the shed.’
‘Good. They will have to come against us, else they lose all their loot. And we have the advantage of a good defensive position. There are three main approaches to the village. Each will be garrisoned by one century of men, while you two, First and Third centuries, will guard the gold store. Do not let the Sarmatians in. If they re-acquire their gold and manage to get it out, then they can run and we may never catch them.’
Saluting, Rufinus and Cassius dashed off toward their men, conferring as they went, Acheron pounding along at the younger man’s heel. As they reached the two centuries, Cassius, being the senior, addressed them hurriedly.
‘Our task is to protect the shed containing the imperial gold shipments. The First will take the northern side and the Third the southern, meeting at the front and rear of the shed. Three lines deep. No throwing of pila. You will need them against horsemen. Now, move.’
Cassius’ men hurtled off to the north side of the great shed and he carefully placed his men so that they covered half of the building in a triple-lined arc. Rufinus did the same at the southern side, the two centuries meeting seamlessly and forming a solid cordon around the important shed at the edge of the settlement.
Rufinus settled his musician and standard bearer safely at the rear of the ranks, by the door of the shed. Losing the standard was unthinkable dishonour, but if the enemy reached those doors it would mean the century were all dead anyway. He positioned himself at the shed’s southern side, in the front line, Daizus around the corner at the shed’s rear.
They had been in place mere moments before it began. The sounds of battle echoed across the village and round the valley, bouncing off the slopes and sounding ever more impressive. Horses burst into sight, racing not for the legionaries in a frontal charge, but in a great circle around the entire village, shed included. Their reason became clear very quickly. At least half the riders had discarded their lances before reaching the village, drawing their bows.
‘Shields up. Watch for arrows,’ Rufinus shouted, just as the mounted archers began to release.
The Iazyges may have been barbarians, but Rufinus had to admire their skill. He was a reasonable horseman himself, despite his life now being spent in the infantry. He had ridden the family’s estate in Hispania and hunted and even practiced fighting from horseback before joining the Tenth. But these men were true instinctive horsemen. Born in the saddle, it seemed. They steered the beasts with knees alone, despite having to maintain the arc of their path and their place among the force, both of their arms being employed with the bows, which they held steady and leaned, turning to loose their arrows rearwards in the famed manner of the Parthians. They kept their mounts moving well, yet managed to release arrows swiftly and with a good eye. Despite the large body shields the Romans held and their defensive position, arrows bit into flesh here and there and men shrieked. Rufinus watched his shieldwall fall apart in three places, quickly repaired with men from rear rows, but they were taking casualties fast, while unable to touch the enemy as they raced past.
They had to make some kind of move, or they would all fall to the arrows without bloodying a sword. With a start, he heard Daizus’ voice close behind. Damn the man, he was supposed to be in position at the shed’s end.
‘We’ve got to do something, Rufinus.’
The young centurion’s nerves prickled at the optio’s lack of respect for his rank, simply calling him by name. But the man was right. If they didn’t do something, they were going to lose to a force just a quarter of their size.
‘Front rank, ready pila. Mark your men and those your neighbours are marking. Make every pilum count. If you can, mark an archer.’
‘You’ll leave us defenceless against a charge,’ Daizus yelled, echoing Cassius’ initial instructions.
‘Corpses can’t make good
use of a pilum,’ Rufinus snarled in reply. ‘Ready… mark… throw.’
They weren’t good. Despite two engagements and several weeks’ practice at Drobeta, it was clear the men were still novices. The pila did not arc up gracefully and fall in a deadly rain as Rufinus had seen happen against the Marcomanni. Here they flew in a dozen different angles, some knocking into each other, one or two spinning in the air so that they fell harmlessly, sideways.
But some hit. Eight of the attackers fell, two of the riders pierced by the missiles, six others striking the horses. It was neither pleasant, not elegant, but it was effective.
‘Pass pila forward.’
The second rank handed their missiles to the men in front, and Rufinus gave the order to throw once again, half a dozen more riders falling to the shafts. He could hear the same commands being given by Cassius on the far side of the shed now. They must have taken out a third of the riders, and the circling force had definitely thinned out. It was tempting to launch a third volley, but they did need to keep enough pila for the front row, and they were now passed forward at his command, held forth defensively.
A distant roar from numerous voices in Latin suggested that something important was happening across the village. A moment later there was a break in the racing horsemen. Those who had just passed were wheeling their mounts and preparing to ride either back the way they came, or directly at the Roman defenders. The men in the village must have fully engaged the enemy, then. Time to do the same.
‘Prepare to charge in open formation.’
The men around him set their shields, front rank with pila held out, the others now with drawn swords.
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