The Dacian War (Book 6 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  The Dacian War

  Book six of the Veteran of Rome series

  By: William Kelso

  Visit the author's website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/

  William Kelso is also the author of:

  The Shield of Rome

  The Fortune of Carthage

  Devotio: The House of Mus

  Caledonia - Book One of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hibernia - Book Two of the Veteran of Rome series

  Britannia – Book Three of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hyperborea – Book Four of the Veteran of Rome series

  Germania – Book Five of the Veteran of Rome series

  Published in 2017 by FeedARead.com Publishing – Arts Council funded

  Copyright © William Kelso. First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To: Annetta and Simon, Generation X

  ABOUT ME

  Hello, my name is William Kelso. I was born in the Netherlands to British parents. My interest in history and in particular military history started at a very young age when I was lucky enough to hear my grandfather describing his experiences of serving in the RAF in North Africa and Italy during World War 2. Recently my family has discovered that one of my Scottish and Northern Irish ancestors fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

  I love writing and bringing to life the ancient world of Rome, Carthage and the Germanic and Celtic tribes. It’s my thing. After graduation, I worked for 22 years in financial publishing and event management in the city of London as a salesman for some big conference organizers, trying to weave my stories in the evenings after dinner and in weekends. Working in the heart of the original Roman city of Londinium I spent many years walking its streets and visiting the places, whose names still commemorate the 2,000-year-old ancient Roman capital of Britannia, London Wall, Watling Street, London Bridge and Walbrook. The city of London if you know where to look has many fascinating historical corners. So, since the 2nd March 2017 I have taken the plunge and become a full-time writer. Stories as a form of entertainment are as old as cave man and telling them is what I want to do.

  My books are all about ancient Rome, especially the early to mid-republic as this was the age of true Roman greatness. My other books include, The Shield of Rome, The Fortune of Carthage, Caledonia (1), Hibernia (2), Britannia (3), Hyperborea (4), Germania (5) and Devotio: The House of Mus. Go on, give them a go.

  In my spare time, I help my brother run his battlefield tours company which takes people around the battlefields of Arnhem, Dunkirk, Agincourt, Normandy, the Rhine crossing and Monte Cassino. I live in London with my wife and support the “Help for Heroes” charity and a tiger in India.

  Please visit my website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/ and have a look at my historical video blog!

  Feel free to write to me with any feedback on my books. Email: william@kelsoevents.co.uk

  The Dacian War

  Book six of the Veteran of Rome series

  Chapter One – The Contract with the Immortals

  The Island of Vectis. Early autumn 105 AD

  The wide sandy beach was deserted apart from a single solitary figure. It was morning and a strong fresh salty breeze was blowing in from the west. Silently Marcus stood gazing out at the grey sea, his stern face, tough, old and weather beaten. He looked worried. The white tipped waves came crashing, hissing and surging up the beach towards him, encircling him as if he was a rock and threatening to swamp his old army boots in icy cold water. The wind tugged at his grey beard and his long black cloak, roaring in his ears and whipping grains of sand into his body. His two hunting dogs were splashing and chasing each other through the surf, barking excitedly. Ignoring the dogs and the elements he absentmindedly reached down to his belt, fumbling for the pouch in which he’d kept his Hyperborean smoking herbs. But the pouch was no longer there. His craving for the herbs had made him forget again. His supply of smoking herbs, which he’d brought back from Hyperborea, had run out weeks ago, and there was no chance of getting anymore. Instead with an annoyed, irritable gesture he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

  There was no point in denying it, he thought. He worried about Fergus, his son. He missed Fergus. It had been too long since he had seen him. The boy had marched off to war in faraway Dacia with a vexillation of the Twentieth Legion and he hadn’t been there to say goodbye to him. Grimly Marcus turned to look up the beach. He had not been there to say his farewell, to give the boy some final last minute advice and to wish him well. Marcus’s face darkened. He knew what Fergus was marching towards. For fourteen year’s he had served on the Danube frontier with the 2nd Batavian Auxiliary Cohort and the thought that Fergus was going to participate in a new Dacian war made his stomach turn over. But the worst was that he was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do to help his son, nothing he could do to protect him. All he could do was sit and wait for news and trust that all would be well. It was intolerable.

  Slowly Marcus raised his head and looked up at the sky, his rugged face, defiant, cold and hard like granite.

  “Hear me immortal gods,” Marcus said silently as he gazed up at the sky, “Hear me for I have something important to say. I shall make an agreement with you on these terms. I ask you to keep watch over my son. His name is Fergus and he has red hair just like mine. I ask you, immortal ones, to keep him alive and safe. I ask that one day he shall come home to us alive and well.” Marcus paused and took a deep breath. “And in return, when you deem the time and place is right, I shall repay you in the manner of my father, Corbulo. I shall willingly give you my life, to do with, as you see fit. This I swear.”

  For a moment, Marcus stared up at the sky. Then a defiant gleam appeared in his eyes.

  “But if you accept my offer and fuck me over and allow my son to die,” Marcus hissed, “then to hell with the lot of you and I will curse you all, useless immortal pricks. Do not think that I fear you or the furies. No man who respects himself does.”

  As he fell silent Marcus turned his eyes back towards the sea. If the gods had accepted his offer they would send him a sign. He would have to keep his eyes open.

  A month had passed since Priscinus had dared attack the farm on Vectis and now Priscinus was dead, poisoned in his own home, a murder that had been arranged by Dylis. Staring out to sea Marcus slowly shook his head in bewilderment. He had not believed his sister capable of such ruthlessness. Dylis, his sister, thought she had done the right thing by arranging the murder. It had solved the immediate threat but it had not settled the legal dispute over the ownership of his farm and land on Vectis. It had made the dispute worse. She hadn’t known how well connected Priscinus was. She didn’t understand that the Governor of Britannia would not tolerate the murder of a close friend. There would be consequences, consequences that were beyond the capability of a troop of retired Batavian soldiers to handle. Dylis however had not understood. He had tried to explain it to her but she had refused to listen. She had called him a coward, a man who lacked the balls to do what was necessary to defend his fa
rm and land from a hostile takeover. The argument had descended into a bitter quarrel and for the past three weeks Dylis had refused to speak to him or even remain in the same room as him.

  Across the wind-swept beach a figure was slowly coming towards him. It was Kyna, his wife. Marcus turned back to stare out across the grey sea as Kyna came up to him, her long white stola cloak flapping in the breeze. Her head was covered by a shawl which hid her silver-grey hair that was tied back and fixed with a bone fibula. For a moment, the two of them said nothing as Kyna paused at his side and turned to gaze out across the sea. In the surf the two hunting dogs suddenly came bounding towards her and excitedly bustled around her legs, shaking the water droplets from their coats. Affectionally she reached down to give the dogs a pat on their heads.

  “Are you worried about Fergus?” Kyna asked as she straightened up. “Is that why you have started coming out here on your own?”

  “What else is there for me to do?” Marcus growled irritably as he stared out to sea. “Jowan, Dylis and Cunomoltus are more than capable of managing the farm on their own. They do not need my help and besides I am no farmer. The slaves are content, the children have good teachers. What is there to do for me around here? So yes, I have time to worry about our boy. I have time to worry about everything and nothing.”

  “You are the head of this family. A family needs a leader and you are that man, you will always be that man,” Kyna replied with a little resigned shrug.

  Marcus remained silent as he stared out to sea.

  “I worry about our son too,” Kyna said at last, her voice calm and strong, “When you were away all those years with your Batavians, I worried about you too. I know what it feels like to wait for news, to fear the worst and to be unable to do anything about it. You have no idea how many sleepless nights I had when you were away. But all you can do is endure it. There is no other way.”

  At her side, Marcus remained silent. Then at last he stirred, glanced at Kyna and gave his wife a little agreeing nod.

  “I shall write Fergus a letter,” Kyna said as she slipped her fingers into Marcus’s right hand, “and maybe in a few months or so we should get a reply. The boy has a sensible head. He will be all right and there is a girl waiting for him back at Deva. When he was here just before you returned from Hyperborea, he told me her name was Galena and that she is expecting his child.”

  “I bet he has a girl waiting for him in every army camp he’s been in along the frontier,” Marcus growled. Then he turned to Kyna and a faint smile appeared on his rugged face. “The letter is a good idea. I will get the Batavians to deliver it to Fergus. Some of the cohorts are taking part in the Dacian war.”

  Kyna gave her husband a little answering smile.

  “You need to speak to Dylis,” Kyna said lightly, “this quarrel between you two is not good for anyone.”

  The smile abruptly vanished from Marcus’s face.

  “What do you propose I do?” he snapped. “That woman does not want to see sense. She doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.”

  “I don’t know,” Kyna said with a weary sigh as she looked away, “she refuses to speak to me too. But this situation cannot continue. You must do something, Marcus.”

  Marcus muttered something under his breath and turned to stare at the waves surging up the beach.

  “She didn’t realise who Priscinus was,” he growled at last. “The man was a close friend of the Governor of this Province. The Governor will not let his friend’s murder pass by without an investigation.” Marcus’s face darkened. “We have a prosperous farm, Kyna, which means that our home and business are coveted by others. Priscinus will not be the only man who will have his eye on our farm. We cannot afford to make an enemy of the Governor. What happens if the Governor decides he likes our place so much, he wants to take it for himself. What then can we do to stop him? We will be homeless and destitute.”

  “I understand,” Kyna nodded, lowering her head, “I understand.”

  Marcus sighed and tightened his grip on his wife’s hand.

  “I told you before,” he said in a quieter voice, “I have ambitions for us. I want to raise this family, us, up in the world. I want to become a member of the Equestrian Order, a knight. It is the knights who effectively run the Empire. They get awarded all the premier military and commercial positions in government. They are men of respect, men who have made something of themselves through guts and hard work. That’s who I want us to be. We built this farm into what it is today. We made it prosper. No one else did that. And now our farm and land are such, that we qualify for membership of the order but admittance still needs the Governor’s and the Emperor’s approval. And how are we ever going to get that approval if the Governor of Britannia is our enemy?”

  “Governor’s come and go, don’t they?” Kyna shrugged.

  “They do,” Marcus growled, “but if there is a cloud of suspicion hanging over us that we were involved in the murder of an important citizen, then no one will want to touch us. In these matters, reputation is all important and ours hangs on a slender thread.”

  “I don’t know about reputation,” Kyna said, “all I know is that Dylis and you must make peace with each other. It is driving us all insane.”

  Marcus grunted and the two of them fell silent. At their feet, the two hunting dogs went racing off, splashing through the incoming waves in a mad dash for a piece of flotsam.

  Gripping Kyna’s hand, Marcus turned to study his wife.

  “Did you really come all the way out here just to tell me this?” Marcus asked.

  Slowly Kyna shook her head, her thoughts seemingly faraway.

  “Ninian has come,” she replied, “he is waiting for you at the farm. He says that he has important news and wishes to speak with you.”

  “Ninian?” Marcus muttered with a sudden frown, “now what does he want?”

  Chapter Two – The Murderess

  Beyond the stepping stones that bridged the gurgling river, the earth rose steeply to form a natural embankment and through the trees beyond, Marcus caught a glimpse of the neat red roof tiles of his farm. A whisper of smoke was curling up into the sky from the kitchens. Limping slightly from the wound he’d received in the fight with Priscinus a month ago, Marcus helped Kyna across the stepping stones and the two of them silently climbed up the embankment and headed towards the main house, accompanied by the hunting dogs. As they entered the small wood, Marcus paused to stare at the forest floor which was covered in a beautiful carpet of yellow flowers. Then abruptly he stooped and with the two remaining fingers on his left hand he picked a few of the flowers from the earth and held them up for inspection.

  “For Dylis’s twins, girls like flower’s, don’t they?” he said, glancing at Kyna.

  Kyna gave him a wry smile. “So, do I,” she replied.

  “You have to earn them,” Marcus said with a twinkle in his eye, “You asked me to solve matters with Dylis and that is what I am trying to do.”

  Suddenly Marcus froze and the colour in his face drained away. Sitting watching them high up on the branch of a tree was a golden eagle, it’s talons grasping the branch. The animal’s sharp, fearless eyes were staring straight at him.

  At his side Kyna gasped in surprise and delight as she too caught sight of the bird.

  “The ruler of the skies,” Marcus muttered as he respectfully gazed up at the eagle. Then abruptly he looked away as he realised what this meant. The eagle was the sign he had been waiting for. The Gods had accepted his offer.

  “Let’s go,” Marcus said quietly as he reached out and took his wife’s hand. Kyna shook her head with a good-natured smile as Marcus started walking again. Through the trees the farm suddenly hove into view. The fine stone Roman villa, barns and out buildings enclosed a courtyard on three sides and next to the house a herd of cattle stood idly munching grass in an enclosed field. From somewhere out of view he could hear a party of slaves singing to themselves as they worked. Excitedly the dogs scrambl
ed away through the trees towards the farm and, a moment later Marcus heard the barking of another dog. He paused as he suddenly caught sight of the crude wooden palisade that Jowan and the slaves had built to protect the farm from Priscinus and his men. He had considered pulling it down now that Priscinus was dead but somehow hadn’t managed to convince himself that that would be wise. Studiously avoiding looking at the burnt and ruined wheat fields beyond the farm, he strode around the low palisade and V shaped ditch towards the main gate. Those same wheat fields had once been a glorious golden colour and had promised a fine harvest only a month or more ago, before Priscinus had set them on fire and ruined that year’s entire harvest. The destruction had been terrible and it still depressed Marcus when he turned to look at his wasted and blackened fields. At the front gate to his property, standing on top of a small wooden watchtower, the slave on lookout, dipped his head respectfully as he caught sight of his master and mistress. In the courtyard one of the slave girls was tending to a stranger’s horse.

  “Tell the twins that I picked these flowers for them,” Marcus said, handing Kyna the fine yellow flowers he’d picked up in the wood. “And this one is for you,” he muttered in a quieter voice as he handed his wife one of the flowers, “after all these years, still the prettiest girl of them all.”

  Ninian was standing beside the window looking out over the blackened and ruined wheat fields, when Marcus accompanied by Cunomoltus, his brother and Jowan, Dylis’s husband entered the long rectangular dining room of the villa. The agent hastily stepped forwards and greeted Marcus with a respectful nod before stretching out his hand, which Marcus clasped in the legionary fashion. Ninian, their broker, agent and go-between with the merchants of Noviomagus Reginorum, Chichester was a fat, fleshy man with a quick friendly smile.