by Peter Tonkin
‘Easier said than done,’ concluded Ferrata. ‘But I’ll bet it will be fun to try...’
The contubernium, their soldiers, slaves and their escort were billeted in a range of municipal buildings at the top of the hill. Beside the better-preserved structures that had been requisitioned by the permanent troops. They were positioned above the open market place and, on either hand, the increasingly derelict dwellings of the once-prosperous conurbation. The billets, like the walls defending the city, had fallen into disrepair but they were largely dry, even if their walls were beginning to crumble between the columns that supported the roofs.
The only building that was not falling into ruin was the Temple of Hercules, the demigod who protected the city. This was much larger than the Temple of Hercules Victor in Rome and square rather than round. Like the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the top of the Capitoline, it had an open precinct around it. The edifice itself stood on a raised section at the top of a flight of steps rising through half a dozen stairs to the front, the back and on either hand. The columns that supported its roof were not bound together by bricks. Instead there was an inner structure, a solid, square brick-built building with a flat roof standing several cubits below that supported by the outer columns. The moment Artemidorus saw it, he nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘I think I’ll just make a sacrifice in there before I retire,’ he said. ‘No matter what happens – or doesn’t happen – tonight, I’d feel happier if Hercules joined my personal demigod Achilleus, holding his hands over me – over all of us, in fact.’
*
Whereas the sleeping arrangement was clearly just a matter of chance, it seemed to Artemidorus as he returned, his hands still stained with the blood of the lamb lying dead on Hercules’ altar, that Fortuna as well as Hercules was smiling on them. For if things went wrong tonight, it would be possible for everyone to fall back out of their half-ruined accommodation into the temple which, with a little planning would make a very effective citadel. This was a fact given extra weight by the lack of any priests or acolytes actually occupying the solid building or its open environs. People who would only get in the way when circumstances became challenging. Especially if their holy precincts were threatened with sacrilege. All of which he had been able to calculate while looking carefully around as he went through the rituals of sacrifice.
After a modest and largely tasteless cena, and before allowing anyone to finally bed down for the night, Artemidorus used the last of the early-spring light to make a number of defensive arrangements. Firstly, and most importantly, he made sure the wagons containing their gold and armaments could be moved swiftly into the temple precincts where they could easily be defended. He had the wheels greased so that they moved not only easily but silently. Then he set two squads to the simple enough task of collecting dry wood from the nearest ruins and piling it at the four corners of the precinct. The plans for the defence of the temple itself he left to Quintus, whose experience in this sort of thing rivalled that of Divus Julius himself. And he left him fashioning simple ladders out of the longest, soundest pieces of timber retrieved from the ruins.
There was a certain amount of grumbling from the troops, because they were doing things the wrong way around – it was usual to create the castrum and then eat cena. But most of it was good-natured. And by the time dark arrived, everything was prepared. All of Artemidorus’ contubernium, their auxiliaries and their escorts knew the plan and their place within it, something that had been achieved almost miraculously, without alerting their lackadaisical hosts – or, it seemed, any of the townsfolk so keen to stay friends with their warlike neighbours at almost any price. Despite the fact that for the first time in some years, there were torches burning in the Temple of Hercules, left there by the Centurion who had sacrificed the lamb earlier.
*
Artemidorus sprang awake from a shallow, restless slumber when a hand closed on his left shoulder. His room was brightened by the flickering flame of an oil lamp held in User’s fist. He looked up to see Puella’s face immediately above his own. ‘They’re here,’ she breathed. ‘Quintus sent us to wake you.’
He sat up, reaching for his belt and gladius. His pugio was under the folded cloak he was using as his pillow. He rolled out of bed and came erect. User and Puella were in their tunics. Recently roused. Not yet wearing their armour or weapons. ‘We need to arm,’ he said.
‘Quintus says there’s time,’ nodded User. ‘He posted lookouts down along the wall, just as you ordered. They’ve reported movement. Spotted the Dacians’ scouts.’
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Get ready for battle. You know the plan.’
Moments later, the three of them were with Quintus in the Temple of Hercules. Artemidorus watched approvingly as his plan swung smoothly into action. The rest of the contubernium gathered silently around him, their faces chiselled by shadows beneath the steady torch-flames. The first of the wagons drew up outside the front of the temple, at the foot of the steps leading up to its columned portico. At once, Ferrata, Furius and the rest were in action, pulling out their weapons and heading towards their designated positions. The wagons with the gold and the precious documents arrived. Together with the weapons cache, they made an effective blockade along the front of the temple. One that could be opened and closed as the slaves rolled them one way or another. Most of the contubernium slaves fell into position behind them. Publius’ legionaries and their well-armed legionary slaves all reported to their posts along the sides and across the backs of the temple.
Silence fell.
They were ready.
vi
The Dacians’ tactics were simple and predictable. This was a raiding party, not an army; a sizeable group by the look of things – maybe a hundred in all, or so the watchkeepers reported. But it was composed and led by robbers. Not well-trained warriors marshalled by experienced generals.
They relied at first on silence and surprise. Coming through and over the city’s ruined walls like shadows and vanishing into the dark streets between the derelict buildings of the outskirts. Led by local citizens and traitors from the military garrison, they assembled briefly in the darkness beside the billets. Then ran in on silent feet with daggers ready to stab sleeping hearts and slit sleeping throats.
But there were none to be had.
After some confusion, which reached the ears of Artemidorus’ command as a stirring and a muttering out in the darkness near their empty sleeping-quarters, they reformed and began to calculate the strength of the enemy who were awake and prepared. The citizens and the treacherous legionaries no doubt assured them that they faced fifty or so men: a cavalry unit without their horses, a contubernium of little more than a dozen, including slaves. None of them particularly well- armed. They wore strange armour – if they had had time to put it on – but none had obvious weaponry other than swords and daggers. The strangers certainly had gold with them, for gold had been seen in the market where the soldiers had gone shopping. Fifty men defending a fortune, therefore, against a hundred raiders or more – what could possibly go wrong?
Their second and last approach was the one they used on the battlefield – under somebody else’s orders. Somebody more experienced than they were, who could probably recognise a trap when they saw one. They came charging out of the darkness in a solid mass ten men wide and a little more than ten men deep. Waving their swords and axes and howling at the top of their voices. Halfway across the shadowy precinct, still almost invisible in the darkness, they were met by a volley of fire-arrows, which missed them altogether, soaring over their heads to fall behind them. For a moment longer, the shadows persisted and the attacking Dacians were little more than gleaming eyes, glittering teeth and flashing blades. Then, with a sound like the arrival of a gale of wind, two piles of firewood stacked earlier on the outer corners of the precinct burst into flames, flooding the whole place with light.
‘Impetus!’ shouted Artemidorus. ‘Attack!’ As he spoke, he stepped forward with Quintu
s, Puella and Ferrata, all of them releasing a volley of slingshots into the oncoming hoard. As Furius, Kyros, Notus and the rest of the archers, given access to the temple’s inner roof by Quintus’ makeshift ladders, let fly their second volley of fire-arrows. The front row hesitated, more than half of them wounded, dying or burning. Unable to stop, the second row ran over them, only to be met by the same withering fire. There was the better part of twenty men down when the third row arrived, their impetus slowed further as they tried to pick their way over their fallen comrades without tripping up. A task made harder by the onward pressure of two further rows behind them.
Artemidorus slid his sling into his belt and pulled out his gladius. Like the others, he had had time to put on his armour and his helmet. Grabbing the shield leaning against the side of the wagon immediately in front of him, he bellowed, ‘INCURSUS!’ and led the charge himself.
With Quintus, Puella and Ferrata beside him, he ran through an opening between the wagons, made wider by slaves rolling them aside. Immediately behind them came Hercules and User. The Egyptian had replaced his headdress with one of the new helmets. A centurion’s matching Artemidorus’, with the red horsehair lateral crest and the solid metal peak reaching out to protect the eyes as the larger cheek-flaps were designed to protect the face. If Ferrata had been wearing a helmet like these when Laenas sprang his ambush, he would still have had both his eyes, thought Artemidorus.
As they charged into the Dacians, followed by another dozen legionaries and legionary slaves, all armoured and shielded, so two more columns of legionaries came snaking out of the shadowed porticoes to right and left, catching the Dacians in a pincer movement and relying on shock – for each column consisted of only fifteen men. As they attacked, the bowmen on the temple roof continued to pour fire-arrows into the flame-bright killing ground.
*
Artemidorus’ world shrank to a tiny, unimaginably intense fraction of space and time, as it always did in battle. The comrades beside him slammed their shields against his, putting him at the centre of a small but solid shield-wall but leaving just enough space for him to stab forward with his needle-pointed gladius. The metal of the new swords might be strong enough to take and hold a keen edge, but the gladius was still primarily a stabbing weapon. Two feet of slim, sharp-pointed blade that thrust outward and upward into the bellies of his opponents. Especially of the wild ones who tried to strike at him over the rim of his shield. Raising their arms, expanding their rib-cages, separating their ribs and leaving their torsos open to the upward thrust, even if they wore armour.
Faces appeared over the metal-clad shield-rim, screaming, gaping, eyes rolling, beards slick with spittle or blood. Faces hardly associated with the invisible bodies he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. Hot blood running over his fist. The weight of dead men standing, toppling forward onto his shield as the life drained out of them together with blood and all the other bodily fluids. The stench of terror, rancid breath, sweat, filth, blood and excrement. The odour of battle. The pressure of his massive companions Hercules and User at his back supporting him as he moved forward. Both men tall enough to be striking over his shoulders at the barbarians beside and behind the ones he was slaughtering. Another face reared. Before he could strike with his gladius, the shaft of a pilum came over his shoulder its iron point piercing the Dacian bandit’s eye, smashing through the socket into his skull, jerking free as he fell back screaming. Hercules using the long spear cannily – pulling it back before the iron shaft began to bend, stabbing forward once again. The flagstones beneath their caligae becoming slippery. Another element to be assimilated, thought Artemidorus. Made allowance for.
Another snarling face thrust towards him as he was momentarily distracted by his untrustworthy footing. A battle-axe swung up. He made the automatic riposte of the gladius stab without thinking. The blade turned aside almost twisting the handle out of his grip – a longer mail shirt than usual. Jerking his shield up so the rim slammed into the gaping jaw, across the howling throat, he managed to knock the Dacian’s helmet back. Immediately, he nodded his head forward with all the force his neck could supply. The extended brow-ridge slammed into the barbaric features, its blunt edge destroying nose, shattering cheekbones. But still the wild man came on. As Artemidorus was distracted further. His abrupt movements had unsettled the shield to his left. His companion there was fighting to maintain footing on the marble slabs of the temple precinct. Slipping, falling...
Artemidorus slammed his gladius forward again. This time it pierced the armour, sinking into the Dacian’s belly. Boiling blood flooded over his fist. As he did so, Hercules’ pilum stabbed forward again almost tearing the top of the shattered skull off. Blood and brain-matter cascaded out of the ruined gargoyle, filling his face. He turned away as Hercules retrieved his spear-point. He was just too late. He jerked his sword back. The handle slipped out of his blood-slick grip. It was wedged in the dead man’s body. Another great gout of blood sprayed into his face. Blinding him. Even as he let go of his sword and turned, reaching down in the darkness to catch Puella and try to pull her erect once more.
But then he was rudely shouldered aside and someone else was standing over the fallen woman. He dashed the hot blood and slimy brain-matter out of his eyes and reached for his pugio. Still turning from the dead Dacian as he tottered there, faceless – almost headless – held erect by the shields in front and his close-packed companions behind. Artemidorus’ blood-filled eyes cleared to see User towering over Puella disdaining to use a shield, swinging his spada cavalry sword double-handed, forcing the last of the defeated robbers back. Until, side by side, they could both reach down and pull Puella safely erect once more.
As Centurion Gaius Omerus in charge of Heraclea Lyncestis’ legionary detachment led his men onto the battleground too late to do anything other than to arrest the survivors and dispose of the dead.
vii
Zeuta, nephew to Deceneus high king of the Daci, sat secured on a chair in the centurion Omerus’ tablinum briefing room. His battle-rage was still boiling, and it had taken several legionaries to restrain him. Most of the men he had led over the ruined walls were dead and were being piled ready for burning. Crinas and Omerus’ legionary physician were tending the wounded – many of whom would soon be joining the dead pile; a few of whom might eventually join their young leader and live on. Zeuta was wounded too, but Crinas had not tended him. His wounds were not serious, despite the fact that he had led the charge from the front. But his rage was such that the gentle Greek could not come close to him – let alone touch him or tend him. Any more than he would have been able to tend a lion or a tiger wounded in the Circus.
Artemidorus, his contubernium and the officers from their escort had no idea who the raging Dacian was. They had no way of understanding the bitter words he spat at them. Gaius Omerus and his men might well have recognised him. Or have understood what he was saying. But to admit to either would surely make them look like traitors at the very least. Artemidorus understood this so he asked the two obvious questions, one after the other.
‘Crinas, is there a wounded Dacian who seems to understand Latin or Greek, who might be well enough to translate for us?’
‘Sadly, not at this moment, Centurion. It is too early to tell...’
‘I understand.’ Artemidorus shrugged. Then he continued. ‘Gaius Omerus, is there anyone in the city who might understand Dacian and who might be willing to act as our interpres interpreter?’
‘I don’t know off-hand. I can send men down into the town to ask...’ Omerus tried to look reliable, open and honest. He failed on all three counts – his pale face slick with sweat and shifty with guilt.
‘Do so, please.’ Artemidorus seemed not to notice the looks Omerus was sharing with his senior officers. ‘In the mean-time, Furius, see if you can find a way to communicate with him.’
As Omerus gestured to a couple of his men who vanished through the tablinum door, Furius stepped forward to confront the young Dacian.
‘Qui es?’ Who are you, he asked.
The prisoner spat at him.
Furius knocked him unconscious.
‘That’s a good way to make him talk to us,’ said User mockingly.
‘It works,’ said Furius, unperturbed. ‘In the long run.’
The Dacian stirred.
‘Qui es?’ asked Furius.
The Dacian spat blood at him.
Furius knocked him out.
*
The interpreter Omerus’ men brought back was a plump merchant. His clothes were reassuringly in the Dacian style rather than the Roman. He gave off an air of matter-of-fact competence which chimed perfectly with the way in which he went about his business. He said that his name was Brassus.
‘That’s a Dacian name,’ said Quintus equably.
‘My father was Dacian. But my mother raised me in his absence. Taught me both her tongue and his.’
‘Ravaged?’ asked Quintus.
‘Romanced,’ answered Brassus. ‘But my father was a wandering man. A trader. When I was old enough I followed in his footsteps as far as the flumen Danuvius and set up a trading route.’
No sooner was he standing in front of the unconscious prisoner than he said, ‘This is Zeuta, nephew to Deceneus high king of the Daci. He is the old man’s favourite. I would suggest you do not damage him too severely unless you want an all-out war.’
Omerus and his men stirred nervously. Artemidorus had little doubt that they too knew the identity of the prisoner. But possibly not the danger his capture might have put them in.
‘Can you talk to him?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘When he wakes up. But I cannot guarantee that he will talk to me.’
Brassus’ fears were well-founded. Zeuta spat blood and teeth at him as soon as the merchant tried to communicate. Furius stepped forward, fist raised. But Artemidorus gestured him to stand back. To his wise eyes it seemed the warrior in the grip of blood-lust had been replaced by the sulky youth too proud to give an uncia inch for fear of losing face.