Eagles of Dacia

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Charge!’

  The horsemen were racing toward the Romans now, though their whooping became more frantic and high pitched as they realised that the Romans were also charging them.

  The legionaries and the Sarmatians met with a crash, a few of Rufinus’ men falling beneath churning hooves, but most stepping out of the way thanks to the open formation and meeting the swords and spears of the riders with shields and weapons of their own. What happened then was much more satisfactory than the badly-thrown pila. The swords of the soldiers lanced out again and again, never bothering to try and pick off the riders, each going to work on the horses, bringing the beasts down as swiftly as possible. There were, by Rufinus’ estimate, only a dozen riders facing his fifty or so men, his century having been regularly depleted during their skirmishes. Rufinus watched with grim satisfaction as each and every horse was brought down, its rider hacked to pieces on the ground, wailing in agony. The men were remorseless, and Rufinus saw one legionary with a Sarmatian arrow jutting from his thigh, cursing the barbarians as he delivered his revenge blow by blow against a pulped rider who was clearly already dead.

  They had won. And they had won swiftly and decisively, with few losses. That was it. Their mission to deal with the surviving pockets of raiders was complete.

  Rufinus let out a sudden strangled gasp as he felt something smash into his back, the blow sending him staggering forward. He reeled, struggling, turning, a numbing pain racing down his left arm. Whatever it was had sent shattered chain links falling to the floor and had seriously bruised him on the left shoulder blade. He gasped again as he turned.

  Daizus was standing there was a look of sheer malice. His sword was unbloodied, but the blade unsheathed and gripped tight.

  The bastard.

  Before Rufinus could do anything, Acheron was there, his jaws closing on Daizus’ left leg. The optio howled in agony and tried to pull the limb free. He made to use his sword against the beast savaging his leg, and Rufinus leapt, his own blade knocking his deputy’s aside.

  ‘Back down,’ he barked, then, without taking his eyes off the optio, ‘Acheron, heel!’

  For a moment, it looked like Daizus might actually strike again, and that Acheron intended to bite right through the leg – the latter would not surprise him at all – but at the last moment the dog released his grip and trotted behind Rufinus, who stood shaking with rage. Daizus staggered, his leg slick with blood, a great rent in his shin and calf that would require stitching.

  ‘Your bastard dog,’ snarled the optio.

  ‘He was protecting me from you, you treacherous piece of shit,’ Rufinus snapped in reply.

  The two men stood glowering at one another, swords still in hand, both gripping the hilt tight and huffing.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Cassius shouted, appearing from nowhere. Rufinus took a deep breath, preparing to accuse his enemy of the worst sort of betrayal, but another voice stopped him, cutting through the tense silence.

  ‘Sheathe those blades,’ roared Tribune Celer.

  Rufinus did so immediately, Daizus a heartbeat later. Their gazes remained loaded with daggers.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Celer bellowed.

  ‘His dog mauled me, sir,’ Daizus said, making sure all present heard him quite clearly.

  ‘I knew that savage thing should have been put down,’ snapped the tribune.

  ‘Respectfully, sir,’ Rufinus objected, ‘Acheron was protecting me, since Daizus here tried to plant his blade in my back during the fight.’

  The optio suddenly acquired an expression of injured innocence. ‘That is the most slanderous lie, Tribune. I am an officer in the Roman army, not some gutter assassin.’

  Rufinus turned, using his right hand to indicate the shredded chain and scored leather on his shoulder. ‘This is your evidence, sir.’

  ‘A Sarmatian sword,’ snorted Daizus. ‘Tribune, the centurion has never liked me, and repeatedly attempts to belittle and offend me. Now he sinks to trying to accuse me of seditious offences.’

  Rufinus felt cold fury settling in him. ‘Listen, Daizus, I have just about had enough of…’

  ‘Silence,’ bellowed the tribune. ‘Did anyone see this blow of which the centurion speaks?’

  No voices rose in Rufinus’ defence. He looked around the gathered faces of his men. They had finally become truly his men at the villa fight near Ulpia Traiana, yet not one opened his mouth now. Most appeared entirely open and innocently silent. After all, it had been in the midst of a furious fight, and all attention would have been focused on the falling horsemen, not on the deputy officer at the rear. The others who were not in the fight – the musician and standard bearer – had been around the corner at the door of the shed out of sight. From a few downcast faces, though, Rufinus realised what was happening. A few of the men perhaps had seen, but the tribune’s expression suggested he had already condemned Rufinus, and the man hated Acheron and all dogs. None of Rufinus’ men, no matter how much respect he had earned, was going to speak up in his defence now.

  ‘I see I am to be betrayed not only by my optio, but by my men too,’ he said, loudly and in an accusatory tone that made more gazes drop to the ground. There was a long silence.

  ‘Tribune,’ Daizus said, ‘I need to see the capsarius, but I would request my centurion be arrested, detained and tried for this obscenity.’

  Celer was regarding the pair of them with a cold expression. Rufinus saw in the blink of an eye something pass between the two men – a nod of assent and agreement made only with the eyes. Damn it, but he should have known, when Senova said she’d seen Daizus with the tribune. The optio had told Celer everything he knew, and now Celer believed Rufinus – legitimately so, unfortunately – to be a spy for the imperial chamberlain. There was no way Rufinus was coming out of this well.

  ‘The evidence seems to support your optio’s words,’ Celer said flatly. ‘Your animal savaged him for an offence you claim but which has left at best circumstantial evidence and no witnesses. Given the nature of your master in Rome and your detached duty here, Rufinus, I do not have the authority to deal fully with you. However, an incident like this cannot simply be washed over. You are hereby removed from command and all duties within the Thirteenth. You will hand over your crest and vitus. You will remain with the column until we reach Apulum, where the matter will be decided by Governor Albinus, who does have appropriate authority to pass judgement. Now get out of my sight.’

  Rufinus, shaking with barely-suppressed rage, glare still locked on the feigned innocence of Daizus, swept off his helmet, unfastened the crest and removed it, pulling his vine stick from his belt and handing them both to the clerk who stood close to Celer’s side.

  That had to be the shortest recorded centurionate.

  Damn it, but Daizus had won in the end.

  XI – Revelation in seclusion

  Rufinus travelled now in the carriage with Senova and Acheron.

  Following the dreadful incident at Fassus no one had spoken to him. He had been assigned one of the urine-soaked, stinking huts for the night and had made his miserable bed in it. He’d looked outside the door but there had been no guards, and that was hardly a surprise. It would make life easier for all of them if he wasn’t there. The troublesome spy from the capital. The next morning the cohort had packed up and marched back to Micia before breaking their fast, doing so before the walls of the auxiliary fort. The argumentative prefect of the place was conspicuous in his absence, which came as no surprise, given Tribune Celer’s threat. Rufinus had absolutely no doubt the man would carry it through, too. They had finished their morning repast and then collected the wagons and the carriage and spare horses, then moved on, back upstream to the east, on the main road to Apulum.

  As they travelled, Rufinus felt keenly the absence of Cassius, to whom he had turned throughout his time in Dacia not only for sensible opinions, but also for knowledge. No man seemed to have the local knowledge of the province that the centuri
on had displayed. Rufinus had wondered why this road was such a major highway, when its westward terminus had to be the border and Iazygean territory, and had lamented being unable to quiz Cassius. It had been Senova who had clarified that in the end.

  ‘Gold.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gold. The Marisus is one of the largest rivers in Dacia and a good, navigable one. Small gold mining communities, like the one you went to, ship their gold down to places like Micia and it is taken upriver to the capital. And the real bulk of gold comes down from the heart of the mountains over two routes, down the Ampelum valley and to Blandiana on this river. The road is here because of the river. It’s the river that’s more important.’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘How do you know these things?’

  Senova rolled her eyes. ‘You were gone chasing brigands for half a day, Gnaeus. What do you think I do when you’re not around? Moon about reading poetry and coiling my hair like a Roman matron?’

  No, thought Rufinus. Not at all. You consort with hairy locals in dangerous stinking drinking pits, don’t you? But he wouldn’t voice his opinion on that matter for fear of earning frosty silence. Senova the quiet, careful slave girl… gone but not forgotten…

  ‘I spent the evening talking to the locals at Micia.’

  ‘You should not go in to town on your own.’

  ‘I am not a wet girl, Gnaeus.’

  ‘Well, no. But still.’

  ‘And I had Luca.’

  ‘Well that’s fine, then. A seven year old with a wobbly lip and a runny nose will scare a dozen violent Dacians into line, I’m sure.’

  There was a dangerous silence.

  ‘How will you make this right?’ she asked suddenly, changing the direction of the conversation at a hair-raising tangent as she was wont to do. Rufinus adjusted his brain to the new conversational angle as quickly as he could. Senova gave him headaches in a way poppy juice or wine never could.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘The tribune cannot do anything to me, even with Daizus snapping at his heels for a death sentence. And I suspect that Clodius Albinus will be even more circumspect in his approach. He may not like me or the reason I’m here, and he might hate Cleander – probably does, but even then he will not wish to draw the chamberlain’s attention and anger, especially if he is up to something. I think I will walk away from it safely, but I also think completing any level of my mission here for Cleander is going to be just about impossible now, with enemies and suspicion surrounding me.’

  ‘Cassius is your friend.’

  Was he?

  ‘Cassius has not been to see me since the incident. Not even exchanged words. I think – I hope – that he is not angry or disappointed, but that he is protecting himself. If I am to be labelled Cleander’s man and reviled among the Thirteenth, then he cannot afford to be associated with me as he has thus far.’

  They fell silent again, listening to the world going by outside the carriage. In addition to the endless rumbles, squeaks and groans of the carriage and the gentle snoring of Acheron in his cushions where, from the drool, he was probably dreaming of eating Daizus’ leg entire, there was a vast symphony of sound from outside. The sun had become even warmer today, like the hotter days back in Hispania, sizzling the land brown and dry and making men sweat uncontrollably. Birds chirruped and bees buzzed, crickets rasped and animals rustled in the undergrowth. And above all half a thousand booted feet crunched on stone, men sang and horses nickered.

  And Luca, up on the wagon’s bench, whistled. Endlessly.

  Rufinus had to smile. The boy had been a dour, downcast slave assigned to Senova by the legion, and in less than a month of Senovas’s control he had become a bright and cheerful companion. As often as not Rufinus forgot he was a slave at all. Senova let him sleep in the tent or carriage, gave him plenty of blankets, made sure he was given the same food as her, and even spared the boy a few coppers for the markets when they were in towns for fun at the markets.

  The day wore on and Rufinus and Senova relaxed somewhat. He passed the time by giving her a potted history of Rome from the days of Aeneas right down to the emperors, both good and bad. Often, she surprised him with her knowledge of the emperor upon which he expounded, only to be reminded that she had spent years in service to the heiress of the imperial line. Still, it was good to give her more of a grounding in what it meant to be Roman, and help ease those last strains of provincial roughness from her. Not that he’d tell her that, of course.

  The cohort made good time, thanks to the flat, easy terrain, the good metalled road in an excellent state of repair and the dry, hot weather. Such good time, in fact, that they reached their next stopping point early, at the height of the afternoon rather than dusk as had been anticipated.

  Germisara was more of the frontier post that Rufinus had been expecting of Micia. The fort itself, a strangely stretched complex on a ridge above the river, looked well-maintained, but distinctly more militaristic than the gleaming walls of Micia. Below the ridge lay a small civil settlement with a bath house and mansio, and a small dock on the river. Rufinus felt strangely at a loss as the cohort moved into position to encamp for the night on the wide grassy plain by the river, not concerned with fortifications given the presence of the garrison on the hill. The men were occupied, led by ‘acting centurion’ Daizus, setting up the camp. The tribune once more went to see the local commander, but this time took only Cassius with him, ignoring the fact that Rufinus was even there.

  Overlooked and in virtual solitude, Rufinus and Senova took the carriage and made their way to the mansio, delivering the vehicle and both beasts to the stable slave there, while the four of them made for the main door of the building. Given that Celer had no authority over Senova, only dubious seniority over Rufinus given the disparity in their units, and seemed to have forgotten that he’d assigned Luca to them at all, they assumed they were free to do as they pleased, and Rufinus decided to dig into his purse for a good room for the night.

  Reaching the mansio, he politely stepped forward and pulled open the door, gesturing for Senova to enter. The sound of conversation and a gentle reek of burning lamps, spicy food and body odour washed outwards. Senova opened her mouth, presumably to object to being the first to enter, but then a broad smile washed over her and she nodded and entered. Rufinus, frowning in confusion, followed her, letting Luca hold the door behind them for Acheron.

  He stopped in the entrance, his brow folding even further as Senova threw her arms wide and announced something in a weird, guttural tongue he didn’t recognise. There was a moment’s silence, and then the man behind the bar and the two men in Roman auxiliary uniforms having a drink at the counter turned and grinned back at her, replying in the same language.

  ‘What in Hades’ name?’

  Senova turned, her face beaming. ‘These men are Brigantes, Gnaeus. My people!’

  Excellent. Just great, thought Rufinus, sourly. Ostracised by his own people, forced to turn solely to Senova for conversation and instead she finds someone else to talk to that Rufinus could not understand.

  ‘Can we speak Latin?’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘My… man here is from Hispania and doesn’t know civilised talk.’

  The barman laughed. ‘I hear the Hispanics speak some weird language that sounds like an ox farting.’

  Rufinus could feel his face reddening. ‘I. Am. Not. Hispanic. I am Roman. I mean, I was born in Hispania, but…’

  ‘Come, Master Hispanic but not Hispanic,’ laughed one of the soldiers. ‘Sit. Have wine.’

  Rufinus contemplated saying no, but explaining his history with alcohol was hardly likely to endear him to these rough northern lunatics. He plastered his warmest smile across his face and followed Senova to the bar.

  Acheron padded along behind him, with Luca at the dog’s side, and Rufinus was impressed to note no reaction other than a raised eyebrow at the animal’s presence. People were so often scared of Acheron that it seemed peculiar to Rufinus when they rea
cted calmly.

  ‘Are dogs allowed in?’ he asked, rather late.

  The barman nodded. ‘It’d be a pain if we didn’t. The fort have a dozen like him for hunting bears.’

  Rufinus blinked. They used dogs to hunt bears? What on earth went on in these people’s heads. But then, he supposed, if you were going to set a dog on a bear, Rufinus couldn’t picture a better breed to choose than Acheron’s.

  ‘What brings cultured men of Brigantia to this end of the world?’ Senova asked, and Rufinus noted sourly how, after a year of listening to her Latin accent improve in good circles, it immediately dropped back into a thick, northern taint now that she was with these people. He tried not to dislike them. He failed a little.

  ‘We serve here,’ one of the soldiers said expansively, waving his arms. Germisara is home to the Numerus Singulariorum of Britannic Infantry. Bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘As my wife keeps saying,’ snorted the other infantryman.

  ‘There are hundreds of Brigantes here?’ Senova exclaimed with delight. Rufinus winced.

  ‘Not quite,’ admitted one of them. ‘Most of them are local recruits these days. Marcus here, and me, we’ve been here fifteen years now. There are maybe forty lads from the island here, nine of them Brigantes.’

  ‘Not me,’ snorted the barman. ‘I’m Parisi, from near Eboracum. We used to throw stones across the river at you lot when I was a kid. But I’m same unit, retired and now running this place.’

  ‘So what’s a good looking Brigante woman like you doing down here, and in the company of a beat up Hispanic soldier then?’

  Please don’t mention the praetorians, wished Rufinus fervently, not wanting to get on the wrong side of a fort full of hairy Britons.

  ‘Detached duty, my man,’ said Senova loftily. ‘On his way to Apulum. We have a carriage,’ she added somewhat unnecessarily in Rufinus’ opinion.

  ‘Ooh, get miss lah-de-dah in her carriage,’ laughed one of them. Must be important your other half, is he?’