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

by William Kelso

  “You were right,” Petrus whispered, giving Marcus a quick alarmed glance.

  “When he starts out into the clearing, I want you to bring him down with your sling,” Marcus murmured without taking his eyes off the rider. “Do you think that you can do that?”

  Petrus was silent as he seems to be sizing up the distance. Then he nodded.

  “Who is he?” Esther whispered.

  Marcus did not reply as he stared at the figure. Then, with a little gentle nudge the horseman urged his horse out into the clearing and began to come towards them. As he drew closer to the spot where the three of them were hiding, Marcus’s right hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword.

  “Now Petrus, take him!” Marcus hissed.

  Without hesitating Petrus rose to his feet, his sling already whirling above his head. The rider just had enough time to emit a startled cry, when with a fast twist of his wrist Petrus released the small stone. The projectile went hurtling towards the stranger and with deadly precision smacked into the rider’s head. The force of the blow knocked the man clean off his horse and he hit the ground with a loud thump. Even before the man struck the ground Marcus was up and charging towards him. As he reached the fallen rider Marcus could see the blood streaming from the man’s head where the stone had hit him. The rider was groaning as Marcus yanked his army pugio, knife from his belt and knelt beside the fallen horseman.

  “Time to start talking arsehole. Why are you following us?” Marcus snapped as he pressed the cold steel blade up against the man’s throat. A moment later he was joined by an anxious and worried looking Petrus and Esther, who crouched in the grass beside him.

  In reply the rider just groaned and his eyes remained closed, as the blood from his head wound covered half his face.

  “I could have killed you if I’d wanted to,” Petrus hissed, boastfully bringing his face close to that of the horseman, “Another inch to the right and my stone would have killed you outright. Yes, I am that good. So, start talking, if you still want to live.”

  “Who sent you to follow us? How did you know where we were,” Marcus cried.

  On the ground the rider groaned and then slowly his eyes flickered open.

  “Cunitius is going to catch you,” the man whispered weakly. “He is going to toast your balls over an open fire. He is only a few hours behind me. He will be here soon. You are not going to outrun him or outwit him. Your pathetic escape plan has failed.”

  Abruptly Marcus swayed backwards as if something had hit him. Then surprise turned into alarm.

  “How does Cunitius know where we are? How did he find us so quickly?”

  In the grass the horseman stirred and weakly tried to wipe the blood from his face but Marcus pressed his hand back down onto the ground.

  “Tell me,” Marcus said with sudden patience. “Tell me and we shall let you live.”

  The man gurgled up some blood from his mouth and then slowly and painfully he turned his head and looked up at Marcus with a contemptuous expression.

  “You have no idea,” the rider whispered, “You have no idea of how much shit you are in. Cunitius has dozens of men watching every port, every town. He had men watching your farm last night. He knows everything and he loves a man hunt. You are never going to get away.”

  “Does he have men watching the port at Hengistbury Head?” Petrus snapped.

  On the ground the wounded rider said nothing as he slowly turned to stare at Petrus and at Petrus’s side, Marcus lowered his eyes.

  “We are watching every port, even Hengistbury Head,” the man whispered, staring up at Petrus with a mixture of resignation and defiance.

  Crouching on the ground Marcus suddenly leaned forwards, grabbed hold of the man’s hair, yanked his head backwards and with a swift smooth movement, cut the man’s exposed throat, silencing him forever.

  As the blood came gushing out Petrus recoiled and turned to stare at Marcus in horror.

  “You are an idiot,” Marcus hissed turning to Petrus with a cold, hard look, “Why did you have to mention Hengistbury Head? Why did you have to give away where we were going? This man’s dead because of what you just said. If we had left him here alive he would have told Cunitius where we were heading. And you still question me why I call you a boy.”

  Angrily Marcus rose to his feet, silently cursing Cunitius as he turned to stare at the forest and the rider less horse that was grazing in the grass some distance away. His anger however was fast becoming overwhelmed by a rising sense of alarm that bordered on panic. If the scout had spoken the truth it meant that he had underestimated Cunitius. He had underestimated the resources the man commanded, the speed with which Cunitius had reacted and he had underestimated his skill and resolve at tracking him down. Abruptly he turned away so that Esther and Petrus could not see his face and as he did so Marcus bit his lip in frustration. Then his cheeks blushed with sudden embarrassment as a new realisation dawned on him. Cunitius had played him for a fool. The visit to the farm the other day had been meant to flush Esther out from her hiding place. Cunitius must have suspected that he was harbouring Esther all along and the visit had been meant to encourage him to make a break for it. And now the hunter had him exactly where he wanted him, alone and out in the open. The scout had been right. They were in deep shit and he Marcus, had allowed it to happen. He’d been played for a fool.

  Behind Marcus and still crouching on the ground, Petrus was staring in stunned, embarrassed, silence at the bloody corpse lying in the grass.

  Sharply Marcus turned around to gaze at Esther, his face hard and cold, and as he did, she seemed to sense his purpose and rose to her feet, meeting Marcus’s gaze with a strange, quiet strength.

  “I understand why you would wish to kill me,” Esther said in a quiet, strong voice, as she gazed at Marcus, “And I shall not stand in your way if we are in danger of being caught. But you should know that this is not the will of God. He has sent you to me to protect me. That is why you are here. You are a good man, Marcus. I knew it from the first day that I met you, but I also know that you will kill me without hesitation if it means that you will protect your family.”

  On the ground, Petrus rose swiftly to his feet, looking startled as he turned to look at Esther and then at Marcus.

  “What are you talking about?” Petrus blurted out. “No one is going to kill you Esther. I won’t allow it.”

  “But it makes sense,” Esther said in a resigned voice, “If I am dead then there will be no one to reveal the role played by your family in Priscinus’s murder. With my death, all the evidence disappears. Marcus is right to consider the option and if it’s likely that we will be captured, then he must do it. He knows that is right and I know it too. More people will die if I am taken alive.”

  But Petrus shook his head as he protectively stepped out in front of Esther and his hand came to rest on his knife that hung from his belt.

  “I won’t allow you to do it, Marcus,” he hissed, his face set into a determined expression.

  Marcus was still staring at Esther and for a long moment he said nothing. Then with a little annoyed grunt he replaced his army knife in his belt.

  “No one is going to catch us,” Marcus snapped, “Do you think that I am going to let a prick like Cunitius beat us?”

  Chapter Seven – The Frisian Run

  It was late in the afternoon when Marcus, who was in the lead, suddenly raised his fist in warning and crouched down behind a large moss covered boulder. Behind him Esther and Petrus hastily did the same. Ahead of him through the scattering of trees and reeds the flat, marshy expanse of a large inland harbour had become visible. The water channels were interspersed with wetlands, mud flats and sand banks and in one of the deeper navigable channels a flat-bottomed ship, with a square leather sail was slowly making its way out of the harbour and towards the sea beyond. Its bank of oars gracefully and silently propelled the vessel towards a narrow winding channel, some fifty paces wide, that formed a gap in the coast line. Careful
ly Marcus surveyed the scene with an experienced eye. He had never been to Hengistbury Head but he knew enough to know what he was looking for. On the higher ground to the south of the inland harbour, a cluster of thatched round houses stood perched on the top of a ridge protected by a wooden palisade. Smoke was rising from the iron blast furnaces that were operating on the promontory and down in the harbour several shallow draft sea-going vessels lay drawn up on the gravel beach. The smell of burning charcoal hung in the air and in the distance a dog was barking. From the village he could hear the dull metallic pounding of a blacksmith at work.

  Hengistbury Head was an old port, so old that no one could remember when it had first come into existence, but it didn’t compare to the new docks and harbour facilities at Londinium or Rutupiae. But as he carefully studied the terrain, Marcus could see why the ancients had chosen this place. The sheltered harbour provided an excellent anchorage for ships to wait out storms and to the north, feeding into the harbour, were two rivers which would give access to the fertile farming land to the north. The plentiful supply of iron ore and salt, he’d been told, had once made this a good, strategically placed trading post. But now the place was in decline, overtaken by the development of Londinium as the province’s principal Roman port. Marcus grunted as he turned to study the headland itself. On its western, landward side, access to the settlement was sealed off and protected by a double earthen embankment. They would not be getting into the village that way which left him with only one option. He sighed wearily. He would have to brave the waters and swim across the narrow channel that separated the sea from the inland harbour.

  Behind him Petrus and Esther crawled up to his position beside the rock and turned to gaze at the small settlement across the wetlands.

  “All right,” Marcus muttered turning to them, “it’s too dangerous for the three us to try and enter the village. So, you two are going to stay here and hide whilst I go into the port and contact my friend and find out what is going on. You are to stay here until I return, even if it grows dark. No fires, no noise, you don’t move until I return, got that?”

  Esther and Petrus nodded obediently.

  Satisfied that they had understood, Marcus turned to stare at the ship that had entered the narrow seaward channel.

  “What happens if you don’t return?” Petrus said quietly.

  “Shut up, boy,” Marcus hissed.

  ***

  It was an hour later when soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold sea water, Marcus paused to study the fortified settlement of thatched round houses, barns and workshops. A few people were going about their business but he could see no one who looked like he was one of Cunitius’s henchmen. Yet they had to be here. The scout had said they were watching every port. Slowly Marcus ran his hand across his face and beard. Then with a weary, resigned sigh he forced himself out into the open and began to stride purposefully towards the village. He had only met the retired Batavian soldier from the Ninth Cohort once, when the man had come to Reginorum on business. He should have planned this better he thought as he passed on through a gap in the stockade and entered the settlement. Petrus was right, he was placing an awful lot of trust in a man he’d didn’t know very well. Grimly Marcus pressed on ignoring the people around him. But if he had learned anything from his army career with the Batavian Cohorts, it was that the Batavians were incredibly loyal to each other. Surely the veteran would help him and of course he would pay the man.

  No one however seemed to pay him any attention, despite his soaking wet clothing. And as he strode through the jumble of smelly, crude, wicker-walled buildings with their conical thatched roofs Marcus kept his eyes open. Then at last he saw what he was looking for. One of the Briton round houses had a sign above its entrance door that read

  Clodovicus, iron tools and weapons merchant, buy the best in Britannia

  Marcus paused at the entrance to the hut and glanced around but he could see nothing suspicious. Quickly he pushed aside the leather apron that covered the doorway and entered the building. Inside the place stank heavily of charcoal smoke. At the very centre of the round house, beside the central pole that held up the roof, a fire was crackling within a protective ring of stones. A man of around fifty and a young girl with long flowing blond hair were crouching around the fire tending to their evening meal. They rose hastily to their feet as Marcus entered.

  With relief Marcus recognised the retired veteran he’d first met in Reginorum. The Batavian was a big powerfully built man with long black hair which he’d tied back into a ponytail. A tattoo of a galloping horse disappeared up his arm. Seeing Marcus, the man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then he relaxed as he seemed to recognise Marcus.

  “You?” Clodovicus exclaimed speaking in the Batavian language, “Well this is a surprise. What are you doing here Marcus? You are a long way from home. Come to buy some of my stuff?”

  “Not exactly,” Marcus replied in the Germanic language of the Batavians, “I need your help Clodovicus. It’s important and I need you to be discreet.”

  For a moment Clodovicus said nothing as he studied Marcus with growing interest.

  “Well, well, Marcus, hero of the 2nd Cohort, has come to me for help. This is an honour,” Clodovicus said slowly. Then a broad smile appeared on the big man’s lips and he laughed and grasped hold of Marcus in a big, friendly bear hug. “Don’t look so worried, man. There is not a Batavian veteran who wouldn’t help you. Thunder and lashing rain, so Wodan cometh,” the Batavian exclaimed as he let go of Marcus, “Isn’t that what you boys in the 2nd used to shout? Of course, I will help you Marcus. Are you in trouble? Why are you soaking wet?”

  In response Marcus glanced at the girl with the blond hair who was staring at him. The girl looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. Seeing Marcus’s gaze, Clodovicus raised his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Clodovicus said in his guttural Germanic language, “She doesn’t understand a word of what we are talking about. She doesn’t speak the language of my homeland. You can speak freely.”

  “Your daughter?” Marcus ventured hesitantly, as he stared at the girl who was gazing back at him.

  Clodovicus laughed again and slapped Marcus on his back.

  “My wife,” the big Batavian veteran exclaimed with a little twinkle in his eye, “Well legally she is my slave but I treat her like a wife. Spent most of my retirement money on buying her and my ship down in the harbour. But now we fuck, nag and fight like any other married couple. She threatens to leave me now and then, but she never will because she knows that I am not a bad man.”

  Marcus turned to look at Clodovicus. “I had to swim to get here,” he said as he moved towards the fire and started to warm his hands. “I need to find a ship that will take me across to Gaul and I need to go as soon as possible.”

  “Sounds like you are in trouble,” Clodovicus replied, as the smile on his lips slowly drained away.

  “I have heard that the harbours across the whole south coast are being watched,” Marcus muttered as he stared into the flames.

  Behind him Clodovicus glanced at the doorway. Then he turned and crouched beside the fire and calmly began to finish his meal.

  “You are right,” the veteran muttered at last, “Strangers arrived a few days ago, there are at least eight of them. They are working together with the customs officials down in the harbour. They are searching every ship that leaves the port. Nothing can leave until it has been approved by them. I have heard that they are looking for a woman, a runaway slave who goes by the name of Esther. Even the customs men are said to scared of them. They told me that it is the same across every port in the province. Whoever is looking for this slave woman must have employed hundreds of men. I have not seen anything like it since I came here. It is a right pain in the arse to have those arseholes rummaging through my boat.”

  Marcus knelt beside the fire, still staring into the flames, as he warmed his hands.

  “They are lookin
g for me,” he murmured, “The slave woman is with me and I need to find a ship that will take us across to Gaul. I need to go as soon as possible. The men searching your boat and watching the harbour all work for a man called Cunitius. He in turn is employed by the Governor of Britannia. They are powerful, dangerous men and I have the misfortune of having them as enemies.”

  At his side Clodovicus paused whilst spooning food into his mouth and turned to stare at Marcus.

  “Shit,” he muttered, “That’s bad my friend. So, the runaway slave with the reward on her head is with you. Why not collect the reward yourself?”

  “Can you help me or not?” Marcus growled impatiently.

  Clodovicus sighed and wiped his chin with his hand. “It’s difficult Marcus,” he said in an even voice, “Even if I managed to get you and your slave onto my ship, my boat would be searched and you would be discovered. These men are being very thorough. Two of them accompany every boat that leaves the harbour. They stay on board all the way until the ship has cleared the harbour and is out to sea. It is impossible to slip past them. It cannot be done.”

  Looking disappointed, Marcus nodded as he continued to stare into the flames and for a few long moments the hut was silent.

  “It is none of my business why these men and the customs officials are looking for your slave woman,” Clodovicus said at last as he finished his meal and pushed the dirty bowls across the straw covered floor towards the slave girl. “And I am not going to ask you why. Frankly if you have the Governor on your back then I do not want to know about your troubles.”