The encounter came on the second day of travelling the plains. There were no roads here. The Roxolani, like all the wild, non-Romanised Sarmatian tribes, were seasonal nomads. Cassius had explained it to Rufinus on their long journey into Dacia. The Sarmatians lived a permanently mobile life, creating a settlement of great heavy tents wherever the weather and the season required them to be, and then packing up and moving on as needed. Thus there were no permanent towns or villages and, with no such settlements, there was no need for roads to connect them. Consequently, they relied on the sun and Senova’s sense of direction. Each morning, they would note east as where the sun rose and Senova would pick the most notable landmark, of which there were precious few – a hillock, a tree, a cairn – and would make for it, then note the next landmark in the line and make for that, and so on. Gradually they trundled east across the great grassy sea.
The cart was bumping and rolling, Rufinus complaining silently in his head where Senova could not hear. It was mid-afternoon of the eighth day out of Commodava, and the first sign of potential trouble came from Acheron. The great black hound had been curled up in the fleeces beside Rufinus, taking up plenty of room, but suddenly an eye opened and an ear pricked up. A moment later he was bolt upright, alert, a low growl starting in the back of his throat.
Rufinus, startled by the change, pulled himself painfully up to a seated position and looked out in the direction of Acheron’s gaze. He heard the Roxolani before he saw them. It sounded like distant thunder, like the rumble of an avalanche. Then, finally, the tribe hoved into view. Hundreds of horses, bearing riders of all ages and both genders. Rufinus peered at them with interest. Almost half the women were armed with spears and swords and bows like any steppe warrior. Behind them, the rest of the horses were being led as spare mounts and, behind them, a slew of wagons, each one packed with the great tents they moved from region to region and all the things needed for their next home. More riders came along, then, herding cattle at the rear of the mass with outriders here and there watching the surroundings for potential danger.
Half a dozen of the Roxolani broke off from the main group and made for the small party of travellers. An impressive man of powerful build with shaggy brown hair and a thick beard pulled out in front and dropped into an easy trot alongside them, a spear gripped tight in his hand, eyes curious and questioning rather than suspicious or angry.
He barked out a question in some strange tongue that sounded like a man trying to swallow a mouthful of pebbles. Rufinus watched with nervous curiosity as Senova edged her horse toward him. She threw the man a greeting in what Rufinus recognised as her native Britannic language. The man looked dumfounded but curious, and Rufinus smiled to himself. She was putting him at ease. The Roxolani might have no idea who she was, but they knew Romans and they knew Latin, and she had established at the outset that they were not Roman. Fortunately, Rufinus did not appear to be required. Roxolani women could be warriors and leaders, apparently, and so Senova commanding this small group raised neither surprise nor disapproval from the man.
Rufinus watched and listened as the pair entered a long and very complicated exchange. The nomad clearly had no idea what Senova was saying, and likewise she was oblivious to the man’s words. Rufinus was in an even worse position, having no idea what either of them were saying, and listening was starting to give him something of a headache. Gradually, though, as the two groups kept pace, heading east, the two of them seemed to start communicating with gestures and tone more than words, and Rufinus gave up, lying back among the fleeces and leaving them to it.
When they stopped at the end of the day, the sun beginning its descent, they were still with the Roxolani, though Rufinus and Luca had been left rather to themselves as Senova had ridden alongside the tribe’s spokesman, conversing in their weird manner. Finally, the cart rumbled to a stop and Rufinus sat up with difficulty once more to see that the nomads had gone back to their people and begun unloading their wagons for the night. Senova had ridden back to join Luca and Rufinus.
‘What very pleasant people,’ she said quietly, trying not to let the Latin be heard in the distance where the tribe were busy working.
‘We’re staying with them tonight?’
Senova nodded. ‘Aldas was concerned that we might fall foul of marauders. There are apparently dangerous cattle raiders in this area and we’re very lucky that the tribe were passing through. They tend to avoid the area because of the dangers, but it seems the women can’t take a man until they’ve killed three people and the chief’s daughter is one short, so she’s hopeful for trouble. They are travelling to their summer pasturelands that lie in the east near the big river, which I presume means the Danuvius. His tribe will escort us safely as far as the river, which means we’ll almost be in Moesia, yes?’
Rufinus blinked. ‘Yes. That’s astounding. I’d not imagined Sarmatians being quite so welcoming. They don’t have that reputation. The big cannibal one at Lucilla’s villa was not friendly.’
‘Tad was something of an exception,’ she replied. ‘It seems the Roxolani have a tradition of hospitality. We will share their great huts and eat and travel with them. But don’t let them know you’re Roman. We were right about that. Your people aren’t very popular here. Trajan annexed the place briefly, it seems, and left traces of forts here and there, but they didn’t take kindly to it.’
‘So who does he think we are?’
‘No idea. We couldn’t work that bit out. I pointed north and made swimming motions. He probably thinks we’re some sort of Germans. But the important thing is not to let them see any Roman kit and not to speak Latin.’
‘Conversation’s going to be fun for the next few days, then.’
‘No conversation. I’ve got them convinced you and Luca are mute. Not a word until we’re in Moesia, or we probably break some hospitality rule and end up dead.’
It was a peculiar evening, and one that Rufinus had no wish to repeat, though it seemed he was doomed to do so several times yet. The Roxolani were swift and efficient at setting up their camp. Their huts were giant circular things made of ropes and leather and fleece, thick against the cold winds of the plains. They lit great fires using the scarce dead wood they had collected on the journey, augmented with ancient, dried horse turds they carried in a purpose-designed cart. The smell was eye-watering and Rufinus wondered how many nights it took to get used to the reek of burning poo. A lot, he suspected. They ate a meal of roasted miscellaneous meat without bread or vegetables. Senova had asked what the meat was, and the nomad turning the spit with huge chunks of meat dripping fat into the fire pointed at the horses. Rufinus felt a dip in his appetite then, but it seemed horse was all there was on offer and eventually hunger won out and he tucked in. It was surprisingly tasty in the end, and Acheron was given a sizeable portion of horse into which he tore with a vengeance. Rufinus was then passed a cup of something yellow and gloopy. He eyed it suspiciously, but everyone seemed to have one, from old men to women to children, and they were supping it down so Rufinus tried it.
He gagged. It had a fiery burn and yet tasted like very old milk and smelled like feet. He tried to pass it back, but some grinning lunatic insisted that he drink it. He did so, wishing he was allowed to speak so that he could express just how horrible this was. He smiled weakly and held the empty cup out for the man to take away, but the nomad just grinned and refilled it.
The music began then, if you could call it that. A drum was produced and rhythmically beaten, and a man started playing some sort of horn attached to an inflatable bladder that made a sound like a bovine being fatally squeezed. Rufinus looked forward to a long and troublesome headache, which came on leaps and bounds when two of the woman started to sing with a sound like a cat being shredded. His spirits sank as he saw Senova stroll over to the two women and crouch next to them, mimicking their dreadful caterwauling.
Soon, when the meal was done, the young men and women began some insane game that involved leaping through the flames
and only occasionally missing and catching fire. He turned to Luca for a comforting presence only to find that the lad had vanished, and spotted him eventually joining in the fire-leaping, still playing the mute but grinning like an idiot. Once more Rufinus wished he was not a mute so that he could call the young idiot back.
He slept well that night, though, in the warm giant tent with a dozen of the tribe and his own companions. The belly full of meat and the several cups of what he surmised must be some sort of fermented milk product helped. They woke early the next day and Rufinus had to fight to stop himself saying good morning to Senova in the public life of the communal tent. In less than an hour, the whole settlement was packed and the tribe moved on, with Rufinus bouncing around in the fleece-lined cart once more and Acheron taking up too much space.
The day was excruciatingly dull. There was nothing to see but lakes and grass and a few occasional lonely looking trees, Senova rode with two warrior women, laughing and exchanging stories as best they could, and Rufinus and Luca were left to clatter along in enforced silence until the end of the day when the whole ghastly experience of a Roxolani evening was repeated. Once again Rufinus forced himself to eat the meat, failed to opt out of the thick milk drink, and had to listen in tortured silence to the grim shrieked song and the honking bladder-horn while young men attempted to immolate themselves for fun.
For seven days they repeated the procedure, and Rufinus found himself lying, stupifyingly bored, in the cart during the daytime, dreading the coming evening and running over every word he could think of, wishing he could say even one of them out loud. He repeated them over and over, thinking of the most complex words he could and stringing together sentences of them, increasingly concerned that when he was finally allowed to speak again he’d have forgotten how to.
Fifteen days out from the fort of Commodava and the last Roman building Rufinus had seen, they finally reached the Danuvius. The Roxolani who, though Rufinus had loathed much of his time with them, had proved to be genuine and friendly, delivered Senova and her two mutes to a small settlement by the river where a ferry had been set up. On the far bank, a fort sat glowering at the barbarian world. Rufinus almost cried at the sight of a Roman wall with a settlement clustered around its base. Senova thanked Aldas for all his help and tried to offer him coins or other remuneration, which he flatly refused. With a wave of farewell, the Roxolani went off downstream, heading for their summer camp site.
Rufinus looked at the ferry. They had done it. In truth, Senova had done it. Rufinus had saved them from Celer and his men, but Senova had kept them alive and seen them safely through a hundred miles of barbarian lands with just her wits and good humour. And now they were safe. One short ferry ride and they were back in the Roman world. The coast lay maybe fifty miles from here and then… who knew? That was something to discuss. First, though, into Moesia Inferior.
XXV – Whither now
They crossed the Danuvius that afternoon as the sun slowly slid into the western haze. The tiny hamlet on the near side smelled of fish and waste, both animal and human, but nothing could strip Rufinus of his relief, and he actually smiled as the small boat slid out into the brown-green water and the expert ferrymen rowed for all they were worth, angling across the current. Acheron stood at the prow, hair wavering in the strong wind blowing up the river. Rufinus noted how, now they were away from Dacia and the mountain peoples, the general nervousness around the big black dog was back. People did not fear bears here, and therefore did not need to keep a dog that could kill one, so they were not used to such animals. The men of the boat kept nervous eyes on Acheron throughout the trip.
Durostorum sat waiting for them on the far bank. They’d not known precisely where on the great river the Roxolani had left them and, when the ferrymen told them the name of the place and Rufinus consulted their map, it turned out that they were a lot further south than Rufinus had expected. He had been planning to cross at Capidava or Sacidava and make for the port of Tomis where there would be plenty of ships, though the danger of being in the provincial capital unnerved him a little. Instead, though, they were some thirty to sixty miles upriver. Never mind. Nothing was going to destroy his relief. They would work it out.
As the boat slipped toward the southern bank and the first soil of the Roman world for many days, Rufinus reappraised his impression of Durostorum. He had spotted the strong walls and a small settlement, but what he’d actually seen was just the port area stretching down to the water. Durostorum was a lot larger than he’d realised, stretching out beyond the fort high on the river bank. It was something of a thriving town or small city, in fact.
‘What now?’ Senova said, and Rufinus pursed his lips in thought. It had been so long since he had spoken more than a few whispered words that he found speaking aloud odd and uncomfortable. Moreover, Senova had taken charge over the entire journey across the mountains and plains and it also felt odd to be asked an opinion.
‘We check and see whether the locals are looking for us,’ he replied. ‘If the governor is in league with Albinus, then word could already have reached this far by courier. If so we need to be extremely careful.’
‘And this is not where you thought we’d cross.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But that doesn’t matter. We can still get to the coast easily enough.’
The boat docked and they paid for their passage with medium denomination old coins that would attract no undue attention. Leading off the beasts and with Acheron gathering nervous smiles of relief as he left the lives of the ferrymen, they arrived in Moesia Inferior. A small inn called the Bartered Goat stood not far from the dock and Rufinus directed the others to the place to secure a room for the night. Better they weren’t seen together up in town or by soldiers until they knew what they were facing.
As Senova and Luca dealt with the accommodation, keeping Acheron with them, Rufinus wandered up into town, confident that with his native clothes, shaggy hair and beard, he would not look like a man any soldier might be watching for. He skirted the fort and wandered around the town, purchasing a few small oddments of food and bagging them up one-handed. His left arm was still held tightly to him with the stinking sling, but his left wrist had almost entirely recovered, and his ribs now only pained him when he bent too low or twisted suddenly.
Finally he found what he was looking for. A mansio sat on the main road that ran along the river’s southern bank. Within, as well as the staff, were two soldiers looking travel-worn, one courier tucking into an evening meal and a wealthy nobleman and his wife engaged in quiet conversation. This was a risk, but a calculated one. He watched the soldiers suspiciously as he crossed to the mansio’s owner at the counter. A native might well be suspicious of soldiers, so the soldiers probably wouldn’t think the reaction odd.
‘We don’t serve just anyone,’ the owner said in a rather snooty tone, looking Rufinus up and down. ‘This is a mansio, not an inn. You need official paperwork or a lot of money.’
Rufinus nodded and spoke, keeping his voice deep but loud enough, and trying to inflect his Latin with a good dose of Dacian accent, on which he felt like something of an expert after his travels.
‘I’ve got news on Rustius Rufinus. I seen ’im.’
The mansio’s operator sniffed, one eyebrow ratcheting up a little. ‘Who?’
‘The praetorian,’ Rufinus hissed, still loud enough to be overheard by the soldiers nearby.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,’ the man said in a tone laden with distaste. ‘Now unless you have appropriate documents, which I find highly unlikely, then I would ask you to leave this establishment. You emit a serious odour of horse dung.’
Rufinus backed away, watching the soldiers as he left. Neither of them leapt up to arrest him. In fact they looked relieved that he was leaving. He emerged from the mansio and sighed, grinning. He was about to return to the inn with his news when he spotted a welcome sight just a little further down the road. Senova would worry if he was too
long, but still…
He opened the door to their room in the inn an hour later to find Senova pacing back and forth in irritation and worry. She rounded on him with a jabbing finger and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘Did you have fun?’
Rufinus shrugged, which still hurt a little and made him twitch. He stood in the same clothes as before, but his hair was short, his beard gone, his skin scraped and scrubbed clean, a new dressing and sling on his arm.
‘I happened to pass a bath house which had a physician’s shop open inside. I figured that I needed the wounds looking at as soon as possible, so I called in. The man reckons another six or seven days and I can probably lose the sling. Healing really well. And he thinks the ribs are about there too.’
‘And you hate the beard,’ she said archly.
‘That too,’ he admitted.
‘I take it we are not being sought then, since you have been busy lounging around in the town’s bath houses?’
Rufinus smiled. ‘I tested the waters in the mansio. They’re not looking for a praetorian or a man called Rufinus, and there were two soldiers passing through on the main road who never blinked at the name. It seems that Moesia Inferior is safe ground.’
‘Good. And good news about your arm. If you ever abandon me like that again without warning I will be tempted to break the other one.’
Rufinus sighed. Unprecedented freedom and legal status had changed the meek Senova, as he’d noted on the road to Dacia, but this time in Albinus’ province, and in particular the flight from Commodava, had given her a level of independence and authority that she was clearly going to maintain from now on. He considered the very real possibility that, if she continued to lose any sense of deference or respect at the rate that seemed to be happening now, soon she’d be talking down to the emperor.
Eagles of Dacia Page 37