Eagles of Dacia

by S. J. A. Turney

  Rufinus and Narcissus looked at one another and shrugged.

  ‘Stay here and keep watch,’ the centurion told his second, and Rathold saluted, waving the other riders into the best positions to observe the surrounding countryside. Leaving them to it, Rufinus and Narcissus made for the mine entrance. As they moved through the darkness, Rufinus heard rather than saw the centurion draw his blade. He turned a questioning glance on the man.

  Narcissus shrugged. ‘You might know him. I don’t know him from Vesta herself. Better armed than dead.’ Despite his strident belief in the crippled soldier, Rufinus found himself drawing his own blade too. The actions did not seem to concern the ex-soldier, who was now in the entrance of the mine, lighting three oil lamps. Each was a sizeable lantern and, though the glow did little to penetrate the gloom of the compound, in the confined space of the adit it created a warm, golden glow that caressed the walls and ceiling and lit the way ahead.

  Taking the lamp that was offered, Rufinus fell in behind the man, with the centurion and his own lamp at the rear. They need fear no attack from there, Rufinus felt certain, with Rathold and his men watching the entrance. After only a few feet, the shaft began to descend, and around and over the head of the man in front, Rufinus could see only an endless straight passageway sinking down into the rock. The sudden oppressive weight of a mountain on top of them insisted itself upon him and he broke into a cold sweat, though, despite the fear building, Rufinus’ natural curiosity won out and he cleared his throat.

  ‘Why is the tunnel this shape?’ he asked, his voice echoing eerily along the passage. Rather than a simple straight tunnel, the miners had carved the passageway into a strange shape – almost a stretched hexagon.

  ‘The shape best takes the weight of the rock. It distributes the pressure without the need for wooden props. Makes the whole thing a lot safer and a lot more efficient. There have only been two collapses in all the Alburnus mines during my time in the procurator’s office. Compare that to lead mines where they rely on timbers and you’ll understand. See these?’ he asked, pausing and gesturing at the wall. There was a distinct line all around the passage, as though they were passing through an invisible portal – a slight lip in the rock, and beside it a small hollow carved from the side.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Each of these lines marks a day’s mining. The niche is for lamps. Each team of miners dig as long as the lamp light lasts, then they return to the surface and another team begins.’

  Rufinus felt the presence of decades of work as they descended and he saw line after line, niche after niche. How many men had died in this tunnel, quarrying rock and rarely experiencing anything approaching freedom. He was suddenly glad Senova was not here, or he would be experiencing an acidic lecture on the evils of slave-miners by now.

  They spent a quarter of an hour moving through the tunnel, though it levelled out after a while, and they passed numerous side-passages. Occasionally they turned a corner, and he could only assume the man they followed knew precisely where he was going. Rufinus vowed not to lose sight of the man. Without him, the chances of them getting out of this warren of tunnels were extremely thin.

  Finally, their guide turned into one of the many small chambers they had passed, which usually coincided with junctions of numerous passages. This one, however, seemed a dead-end. All it contained was a cart full of tools and a pile of broken oil lamps.

  ‘If I give you the proof you seek, what do you intend to do with it?’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘You’ve brought us this far, surely you trust us?’

  ‘Tell me. Or I will not lead you back out. Some things are bigger than one man’s life.’

  ‘Spoken like a soldier,’ Rufinus said quietly. He had thought on the issue a little, though not through to a full conclusion yet. But still, he had an idea. ‘I am bound for Porolissum. There I am to present myself to Pescennius Niger. I am a member of the praetorian guard on detached duty, sent here by the emperor’s chamberlain to investigate this very matter. Niger has been recommended to me by someone I trust. I will present him with the evidence and see that Albinus is prosecuted for it.’

  The ex-legionary frowned for some time, apparently trying to decide whether Rufinus’ plan was satisfactory.

  ‘I’m not keen on such a vague reliance, but better going north to Niger than anywhere near Albinus or even most of the provinces to the south and west.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  The man crossed to the small mine cart and moved the tools and a rough sack, fishing something out from beneath them. It was clearly heavy, and the man lifted it with a grunt, favouring his good leg, then held it forth in shaky hands. It was a wooden box roughly a foot and a half long and a foot in each other dimension. It was strapped tight with leather ties that were sealed with a wax seal. The letters P S F had been scored into the wooden top, followed by ROMA.

  Rufinus frowned, taking the box, his arms dipping with the sudden weight.

  ‘How do you know what it is if you’ve not opened it?’ Rufinus asked quietly.

  ‘It’s not the first one of these I’ve seen. Not even the tenth. Not even the fiftieth. I know what it is. But all the others have gone. This is the only one that remains and I kept it safe, hidden down in this mine.’

  ‘I’ll need to open it.’

  The man shrugged. ‘That might make it inadmissible as evidence, but then Niger would want it opened when you produce it anyway. Your oath as a praetorian on an altar of Apollo should be enough to satisfy most people. Open it, then.’

  Rufinus placed the casket on the floor. ‘This is Albinus’ seal?’

  The man nodded, and Rufinus took his eating knife from his belt and, careful not to destroy the seal, sawed through the leather straps it covered. Finally, he had cut enough and he pulled the box from the leather straps with a grunt. There was a keyhole to the box, and he sucked on his lip for only a moment before ignoring the lock and using his knife to lever out the pins holding the hinges at the far side. The ex-soldier smiled. ‘With a mind like yours, you should work in the procurator’s office too.’

  Rufinus snorted and lifted the lid. Though he had been expecting it, the sight of the gleaming precious metal still made his heart skip a beat. Three bars of gold sat in the box, each unmarked and unstamped, officially owned by no one. Secret gold. With them was a scroll case, also sealed. Taking a deep breath, Rufinus used his knife to slice open the end of the leather tube without disturbing the seal. A sheet of vellum slid out.

  The young praetorian lifted it to the light and read, his breath locked behind his teeth and his eyes widening as he moved down the brief missive. In a neat hand, the author put forth a request that one Durmius Pavo be assigned as a praetor in the city of Rome. The letter was marked from D C S A.

  Rufinus looked up. ‘D C S A?’

  ‘Decimus Clodius Septimius Albinus,’ the man confirmed.

  A praetor. Rufinus had no idea who this Durmius Pavo might be, but if he were made a praetor in Rome, and he owed it to Albinus? Rufinus shivered. One task of the praetors was to preside over cases of corrupt governors. Albinus truly was covering himself.

  ‘So who is he asking to secure this position for Pavo?’

  The ex-soldier tapped the lid, where the three letters were marked.

  ‘But who is P S F?’

  ‘In Rome, I can think of only one name that fits and might have the influence to secure that position,’ the man replied. ‘Publius Seius Fuscianus.’

  Rufinus felt his blood chill. The urban prefect. The man almost ran the city of Rome, though he did so only with Cleander’s say-so these days. Fuscianus controlled the urban cohorts who kept the streets of the city safe, he oversaw the city’s guilds and colleges, the mint, the grain supply and much, much more. Yes, if any man in Rome could simply appoint a praetor, other than Cleander or the emperor that was, it was Fuscianus.’

  ‘This is… this is… is it treason? I don’t know. It’s certainl
y very dubious and illegal. And this is not the only one, you say?’

  The ex-soldier nodded. ‘Dozens of them over the past year. I saw it go to a dozen provinces or more and more than half to Rome itself though not through official channels. The gold is slipped out before it becomes marked officially, side-lined into boxes like this and sent all over the empire.’

  Rufinus felt the hairs rise on his neck again. How big was this conspiracy? He suddenly pictured the cadaverous Quintus Naevius Capella, governor of Moesia Superior, opening a box like this and grinning at the gold within, accompanying a letter asking for levies of men in the province. We have an arrangement, Capella had said. How many other arrangements like this were there? All over the empire, and right into Rome. Something suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘This Durmius Pavo… he’s one of the mine owners, isn’t he?’

  The ex-soldier smiled. ‘You’re quick. Yes. In exchange for gold from his mine, Albinus secures him a good post in Rome. And to secure that post, he sends the gold to the urban prefect. All very neat.’

  Behind them, Narcissus gave a confused rumble. ‘But Albinus gets nothing from it? The mine owners and other people, no doubt, get positions of power and influence, and those people who secure the positions get the gold. All Clodius Albinus gets is the job of moving it all back and forth.’

  Rufinus shook his head.

  ‘What Albinus gets is debts. Everyone owes him. The mine owners and the powerful men, and I’d be willing to bet the only mine owners who died here are ones who have not been part of this grand plan. Those involved all know Albinus has done them a favour. And while every last one of them is party to Albinus’ crime and could bring him down, none of them would dare, for they are all as deeply in it as him. The man’s a twisted genius. He’s built a web of rich and powerful men with himself at the centre. All he has to do is pull on a thread and he could change the whole empire.’

  The enormity of that suddenly struck him.

  ‘Albinus is preparing for a coup. He has his eyes set on the throne. He is manoeuvring his pieces into position on the board. Gods, but the man’s clever. Pompeianus would have trouble with this one.’

  ‘You think he would really try to overthrow the emperor?’

  Rufinus shrugged. ‘Why not. It’s been done before. Look at the end of Nero. Vespasian had his pieces in place. One son in charge of one of the largest armies of veterans in the empire, popular and with a string of victories. The other in Rome, influencing everything in preparation for their father’s triumphant arrival in the city and claiming the purple. A brother commanding the praetorians. Jove, but this is huge. It doesn’t matter that I’ve opened this box. If this gets back to Cleander, Albinus’s head will be on a spike in days, along with everyone else in that web. I have to get this to Niger, as soon as possible.’

  And this is just big enough that it might buy me Publius’ freedom, he added silently.

  Narcissus nodded. ‘We ride for Porolissum at first light and move as fast as we can.’ He looked over at the ex-soldier. ‘You should come with us. You’ll be safe there.’

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m going to disappear. No one will look for the lost man of the procurator’s office and I’ve been officially discharged from the military, so I’m not a deserter. A life of comfortable obscurity awaits me.’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘I imagine you have a box with a few of these in somewhere private, eh?’

  He man shrugged. ‘I shall not be poor,’ he replied with a sly smile.

  ‘Probably a good thing I don’t know your name after all. Thank you, though. You’ve done me a great favour and the empire a huge service.’

  The man straightened. ‘Let’s get back out of the mine. I’m sick of the sight of Alburnus Maior.’

  For the first time in months, Rufinus felt hope course through him.

  XV – Into the borderlands

  The journey became arduous immediately upon leaving Alburnus, and Rufinus swiftly realised why the scout centurion had given him such a length journey estimate. Ever since they had left the Danuvius what felt like a lifetime ago and travelled into Dacia they had, Rufinus now realised, travelled on actual roads, whether they be modern Roman ones, routes of the Dacian people from the time of their kings, or humble native trade routes.

  But nothing travelled north of Alburnus Maior. Apart from a few sheep trails and local village tracks, there was no way through these hills. People simply did not travel through them unless it was perhaps to the next village to barter for chickens. It was bad enough terrain for the horses, let alone for Senova’s carriage, and Rufinus really had to appreciate how, despite everything, Narcissus constantly found ways wide enough for the vehicle, even if only at a scrape.

  Bare, blasted moors. Forests with little more than widened game trails. Rocky outcroppings. Deep valleys with grey cliffs and azure waters. And all just wide enough to manage the carriage, though the vaunted suspension could no longer do anything to counteract the bone-shaking awfulness of the journey. Rufinus had tried one afternoon in the vehicle and has quickly given up in disgust and returned to Atalanta, who provided boundless comfort by comparison. He couldn’t understand why Senova didn’t just abandon the carriage and ride a horse. No one was going to care about improprieties, especially in this company. It had to be British pig-headedness, or perhaps feminine bloody-mindedness. Either way, she lived with every teeth-jarring bump. Even Acheron now shunned his blankets and cushions for a brisk walk.

  The same scene repeatedly characterised their journey.

  ‘Ah, good,’ the centurion would say, satisfied. ‘The Padas market road. We should make better time for a while.’

  Rufinus would look at the thing at which Narcissus was pointing. ‘That,’ he would say, ‘is not a road. That is simply some dirt that is a different colour to the dirt on either side.’

  Or.

  ‘Excellent. We have joined the Metlad logging road.’

  ‘One wonders how even a log manages to travel this road, let alone a wagon.’

  Or.

  ‘Thank the gods. The Aureus crossing.’

  ‘Narcissus, for a river to have a crossing, it needs to be shallower than the rest of the river.’

  Yet slowly, painstakingly, they moved on north. And despite the troubles they encountered on an hourly basis, Rufinus found he was taking it all in the most incredibly good-natured manner. The astounding and unexpected success of their visit to Alburnus Maior had infected him with a positivity he had not felt in a very long time.

  Senova seemed to feel it too, from the shaking confines of her carriage. She had not told him off in days, and seemed not to find his very presence a cause for irritation and wry commentary. Six days they spent, travelling in the highlands, through valleys and woods and over moors, and finally they began to encounter more level and comfortable terrain. There Rufinus began to see something new. Earthen embankments across narrow valleys, half-finished towers, areas of mass deforestation. The centurion explained it to him.

  ‘The Limes. This is the edge of the empire, Rufinus, my friend. You pass that tree you can see on the horizon and take a shit on the other side and you’re defiling Iazyges lands.’

  ‘So close?’

  Narcissus shrugged. ‘Nah, not really. It’s a bit further than that in truth, but we are close now. In fact only one fort lies between us and the Sarmatians: place called Resculum. Weird place. Hispanic auxilia and Greek settlers relocated there to try and make it feel less like the arse end of the empire. But that’s just part of the whole defensive system. What you’re seeing here and there are marks of the Limes Porolensis. Used to be there was just a few signal stations and fortlets right at the outer edge of Roman influence but, since the incursions, Pescennius Niger’s been strengthening the border all the way along with levels of defence. Ramparts across the most open areas, actual customs posts and towers. There’s a full system gradually coming into place, all the way from the Danuvius to the northern wilds. It’s a work in pr
ogress, but it’s coming along.’

  Rufinus nodded. He’d been outside the empire, of course, during Aurelius’ Marcomannic Wars, but somehow seeing such a delineation marked in turf and timber and stone was different. In a world where he had been brought up to believe that Rome was boundless and all non-Roman territories were simply lands yet to be included in the Pax Romana, he was suddenly aware that Rome – Hadrian specifically – had drawn a line on a map and said ‘beyond here will never be part of the empire.’ Strange to consider.

  On the seventh day, the weather changed yet again. The Dacian gods had thrown their weather die and the cube had come down showing ‘showers’. Showers it was, then. The skies remained a deceptive blue, the weather warmer than it had been high up in Alburnus, and yet repeatedly delivered lead-grey clouds out of nowhere that raced across the sky so quickly that by the time you realised you needed shelter, you were soaked and the cloud was gone again, leaving clear blue once more. Every now and then Narcissus would pause and point off into the distance at some invisible target naming a fort that he knew but that they would be going nowhere near, very helpfully.

  The jokes continued, too. Every day a plethora of pointless gems.

  ‘Did you hear about the Aegyptian merchant? He had to ask how much a five-cup flask held.’

  ‘There was a Cumean who went swimming, and when it started to rain he went into the deep end so as not to get wet.’

  ‘Did you hear about the gladiator with such bad breath that when he put on a helmet it was counted as suicide.’

  ‘There was this Athenian travelling by ship when a storm hit. Everyone tied themselves to something just in case, so he tied himself to the anchor.’

  Rufinus was in such a good mood that he actually laughed dutifully at more than half the jokes.

  On the eighth day, late in the morning, they crossed a small river and Narcissus let out a bellow of relief. Rufinus, startled from a daydream, looked around sharply. ‘What?’