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

by William Kelso

  “Stay inside,” Marcus roared and abruptly the door closed.

  Grasping hold of the unconscious man’s leg he started to drag the man down the flight of stone stairs, the man’s head hitting the steps with a rhythmic and bloody thud as they descended to the ground. There was no sign of the other man. The second mugger must have already fled. As Marcus dragged the unconscious man down the stairs more doors in the apartment block opened, but as the inhabitants caught sight of Marcus dragging his assailant down the stairs they hastily shut their doors again. The fat innkeeper was on his feet and staring at Marcus in disbelief as he came down the stairs dragging the criminal behind him. Calmly Marcus let go of the man’s leg, stepped around the wooden desk and before the innkeeper could react he grasped hold of the man’s head and slammed his face painfully down on the counter.

  “The next time you send a couple of cut-throats to my room,” Marcus bellowed, his face contorted in rage, “I will slice open your throat and throw your body to the dogs outside. So, do we understand each other?”

  The innkeeper, his face pressed against the desk squealed in terror as Marcus pressed his face hard into the wood.

  “All right, all right,” the innkeeper yelped in a terrified voice. “I get it. I get it.”

  “Hell Marcus,” Petrus exclaimed clutching his knife and looking alarmed from where he was standing on the bottom of the stairs, “To what kind of shit hole have you brought us?”

  Chapter Eleven – Bad Boys

  Marcus sat slumped on the floor of the bare apartment room, his back leaning against the wall, and stared at the door with a bored expression. Petrus had already been gone for hours and outside the noon sun had dipped and had begun its long journey towards the western horizon. The room was hot and in vain Marcus slapped at a fly that was buzzing annoyingly around his face. All morning he had been cooped up in this room with nothing to do but watch the door. The thugs had however not returned and all had been quiet. Beside the open window, Esther was gazing out across the city of Rome and, from far below down in the street, he could hear the advertising cries of the merchants and shopkeepers. On the opposite wall, some previous tenant of the room had covered it in crude and rude graffiti.

  Suddenly he heard movement outside on the landing and a moment later a little knock on the door. Raising himself Marcus gestured for Esther to step away from the window and get behind him.

  “It’s me, Petrus,” a muffled voice muttered from behind the door.

  A moment later Petrus quickly entered and closed the door behind him. He turned to Marcus with a relieved, hopeful look, nodding as he did.

  “Well?” Marcus growled as he studied him.

  “I found them, my Christian brothers,” Petrus said with a little triumphant note in his voice, “it wasn’t easy but I did it. They are quite secretive. Bit suspicious of outsiders but I think they trust me now. You can’t blame them though. Rome is a hostile city to Christians and Jews. They are still burning Christians in the Colosseum, those who refuse to revert to paganism.”

  “Did you speak to the priest? Did you speak to Abraham?” Marcus interrupted.

  Petrus sighed and shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t let me see or speak with Abraham. Like I said they are very protective of their priests. But I did leave a message for him and if he wants to meet us he will let us know in due course.”

  “In due course,” Marcus said his face darkening, “how long will that take?”

  “Maybe a few days,” Petrus replied evasively, “I was told to come back on the Sabbath. They said they would have an answer for me then.”

  “Great,” Marcus replied turning to glance at the open window. “And when you met these brothers of yours, did they ask you why you wanted to meet Abraham? Were they not curious about who you were?”

  Beside the door, Petrus hesitated. Then he nodded. “Yes, they wanted to know why I wanted to meet him. I told them what you suggested I tell them, that I needed some advice, advice that only Abraham could give me.”

  “Good man,” Marcus grunted in satisfaction. “Then all we can do is wait until we have the Christian priest’s reply.”

  Turning to Esther, Marcus gave her a reassuring look. “You and Petrus will stay here. Don’t leave this room and don’t let anyone in whilst I am away. You have plenty of food and drink and if trouble comes up those stairs, you get out through the window. I have already had a look. It is possible to escape across the roofs of the buildings if you must. I won’t be long.”

  “Where you going, Marcus?” Petrus frowned.

  “I am going to pay a visit to the Last Truffle,” Marcus replied from the doorway, “the tavern suggested by that veteran in Portus. If there are Batavian’s staying there then they may have some advice for me on the lay of the land.” Marcus paused and then turned towards Petrus. “I don’t know this city and I don’t like not knowing what we are up against. Maybe the Batavians will be able to fill me in.”

  “Still worried about Cunitius,” Petrus asked raising his eyebrows.

  Marcus did not reply as he closed the door behind him and started down the stairs. As he emerged into the ground floor hallway he saw that the innkeeper was not at his post and that another man had taken his place.

  “Good day to you Sir,” the man said, glancing up at Marcus.

  “Fuck off,” Marcus replied as he went out through the doorway and into the narrow street.

  ***

  The Last Truffle was a small discreet-looking tavern on the ground floor of a tall apartment block, which opened onto an alley just off the main street of the Subura. Marcus paused as he caught sight of the wooden sign above the door. Further down the alley a pile of stinking, decomposing rubbish was partially blocking the way. The alley itself stank of stale urine and vomit and a pair of rats were busy inspecting the rubbish. In the narrow, crowded and congested main street, people were pushing past each other as they went about their business. On the ground floor of the tall tenement buildings the numerous small workshops, food markets, barber shops and manufacturing outlets were open and doing a brisk trade with customers and slaves looking for bargains for their masters. The noise of the crowd and a dozen different professions filled the street. And over it all hung an ever-present putrid stench. Casting a final glance around him, Marcus entered the alley and approached the entrance to the tavern. Pushing through the doorway he emerged into a large and gloomily lit room. Against the far wall a man was standing behind the bar. He was dipping a cup through a hole in the bar and reaching down into the barrels and amphorae that were stashed underneath the wooden bar. Incense filled the room relieving the smell from the streets and in the far corner, a staircase led up to the floors above. Beside the stairs, a closed door seemed to lead onto a back room. A few customers were hunched over drinks, sitting around a wonky-looking table in the corner. They briefly looked up as Marcus entered before returning to their conversation.

  “I am looking for Valentian,” Marcus said as he approached the bartender. “I was told that I could find him here.”

  “Is that so,” the bar tender replied, calmly placing his cup on the bar and folding his arms across his chest. The man was clean shaven, with a tough square jaw and he was wearing a short-sleeved tunic. His arm muscles bulged out of his tunic and he had the broken nose of a boxer. He looked around forty. For a moment, he carefully studied Marcus.

  “I am Valentian,” the man replied. “Who told you to come here?”

  Marcus dipped his head and muttered a quick, polite greeting. “Honorius told me about you,” he said. “He says that he sends you a generous customer.”

  Behind the bar Valentian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Honorius said that, did he. A generous customer,” he repeated. “Well, what can I do for you? Some wine perhaps?”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “My name is Marcus,” he said. “Honorius told me that some Batavian veterans like to hang out around here. I was hoping to have a word with them. Do you
know where I can find them?”

  “No Batavians around here I’m afraid,” Valentian said swiftly, as he turned away and started to clean one of the cups on the bar.

  “Are you sure,” Marcus asked. “Honorius seemed pretty certain that they were here. I served twenty-three years with the 2nd Batavian Cohort and I am new to Rome, so I was hoping to meet some old comrades.”

  Behind the bar Valentian did not reply as he continued to clean his mugs with a piece of cloth. Then he frowned and turned to peer at Marcus with a pained expression.

  “If you are lying to me Marcus,” he replied, “I won’t take it kindly. No one gives a shit about you and I will not be responsible for what happens. You should know that life is cheap around here. The Batavian’s don’t like people disturbing their privacy. You have been warned.”

  Then before Marcus could say anything, Valentian gestured with his head at the door that led to the back room.

  “They are in there,” he said curtly. “But you leave your sword and knife here. Those are the house rules.”

  “What?” Marcus snapped.

  “Trust goes both ways,” Valentian said with a smirk, as he held out his hand. “You will get them back when you leave.”

  Reluctantly Marcus undid his sword and pugio from around his belt and handed them over to Valentian. Then without another glance at the barman he strode towards the door, opened it and stepped into the back room. A blast of incense wafted into his face nearly making him choke. The backroom was smaller than the bar and completely windowless. Several flickering oil lamps along the walls provided the light and in the middle of the room several men were sitting around a circular table. A pile of gleaming coins was piled up in the middle of the table beside several jugs and cups of wine and one of the men was holding up and shaking a cup that seemed to contain dice. Two stark naked women were sitting in a corner picking at their nails in boredom. As Marcus stepped into the room everyone turned to stare at him in surprise.

  Calmly Marcus closed the door behind him as the men, annoyed at the intrusion, loudly pushed back their chairs and rose to their feet.

  “Forgive for me disturbing your gambling, boys,” Marcus growled turning to face the men around the table. “But I hear that you once belonged to the Batavian Cohorts. Is that so?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” one of the men with a hideous scar across his face snapped, taking a step towards Marcus. “Who invited you? This is a private gathering.”

  “Valentian told me where to find you,” Marcus replied raising the palms of his hands to show that he meant no harm. Then he paused and switching to the language of the Batavian’s.

  “My name is Marcus. For a short while I was acting commander of the 2nd Batavian Cohort when we were camped at Luguvalium in Britannia. I served and fought with Agricola at Mons Graupius. I spent fourteen years on the Danube frontier.” With a grim smile, Marcus held up his mutilated left hand where only two of his fingers remained. “I received this in a skirmish with Dacian raiders. It could have been worse though, it could have been my right hand.”

  Around the table the men hesitated and glanced at each other. Then the man with the scar raised his hand and rubbed his chin.

  “2nd Cohort,” he snapped replying in the Batavian language, “We are from the 1st but strangely I have never heard of you.”

  “Maybe you were too young,” Marcus replied as a little smile appeared on the corner of his lips. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter I can see that you are busy so I will make this short. I am new to Rome and I need some advice. What do you boys know about the Christian community here in Rome? I am seeking to contact these Christians but no one seems to know them.”

  “Christians,” the man with the scar exclaimed, “We don’t know any Christians apart from the ones we see being executed in the Colosseum. Why would you want to meet them? They deny the existence of our Gods.”

  “I remember your name now,” one of the Batavians with a dark beard and a shrunken face suddenly exclaimed in his native language as he pointed a finger at Marcus. “You are the officer who gave that speech. What was it? Something like shit here come those damned Batavians again.”

  “That’s right,” Marcus replied with a little nod. “Thunder and lashing rain, so Wodan commeth. Maybe you knew some of the officers of the 2nd; Adalberht, Lucius, Hedwig? Adalberht and Lucius are dead now but Hedwig still lives near Aquae Sulis in Britannia.”

  For a moment, the room fell silent as the men around the table stared at Marcus. Then the man with the shrunken face grunted.

  “I know this man,” he said sharply and confidently in the Batavian language as he turned to his comrades, “This is the Marcus who saved his entire unit at Luguvalium but the Roman officers; they still demoted him.”

  The shocked room went silent as all eyes remained fixed on Marcus.

  “Shit,” the man with the scar exclaimed, as he slowly shook his head in disbelief and stared at Marcus with renewed respect. “And here you just walk through our door. Boys, get the man a seat and a drink.”

  Gratefully Marcus sat down on the proffered chair but he didn’t touch the cup of wine that was moved in his direction.

  “This is my first time in Rome,” Marcus said, turning to look at the eager faces that suddenly surrounded the table, “And I need some advice. If a man wanted to disappear in Rome, what would he have to do?”

  “You mean, you want to kill someone?” the man with the scar across his face replied.

  “No,” Marcus shook his head still speaking in the Batavian language. “If I wanted to vanish into the city and start a new life, how would I go about it, when I know no one whom I can trust and rely on?”

  Around the table the Batavian veterans glanced at each other in silence. Then the man with the shrunken face leaned forwards. “You on the run from something, Marcus?” he growled.

  “A friend of mine is, she needs to disappear,” Marcus replied bluntly.

  “She?” one of the Batavians muttered, raising his eyebrows.

  “There are many people in Rome who are here because they don’t want to be found,” the man with the scar interrupted. “Runaway slaves, murderers, debtors unable to pay their debts, foreign spies, Christians, Jews, hell you name it. And the city is an easy place in which to vanish if you have a support group.”

  The scarred man was staring straight at Marcus. Then he licked his lips. “Newcomers who have no one to support them in this city are fucked,” the man snapped. “Let me explain how it works around here. At the top are the rich, the emperor and the senate. They always stick together against the rest of us. You don’t fuck with them unless they ask for it. Below them are the ordinary citizens, the merchants and craftsmen, the soldiers, shopkeepers, the lawyers and bankers etc. They like to form guilds that protect their interests. You can rob them once, you can beat them up and maybe you will be able to get away with a murder here and there, but eventually they will gang up on you and then some miserable informant will give you away and they will get their revenge.” The scarred veteran gave Marcus a wry smile. “Believe me Marcus, Rome is full of informants ready to sell you to the highest bidder. And below them are the criminal gangs, the unemployed and unemployable, the migrants from the provinces, the scum of the world, most of whom live around here. The gangs need to be watched for they are constantly fighting each other for territory and resources. Whatever you do, don’t get caught in their crossfire. They don’t care who they kill or harm. They only respect a good, sturdy knife.”

  “What my friend here is trying to tell you,” the man with the shrunken face said interrupting, “Is that you need someone who can watch your back. If your lady friend does not want to be found, exploited and abused, she will need a strong and loyal group of people who will protect her. That’s the only way in which she will survive around here.”

  Marcus remained silent as he took in what had been said. Then he nodded in gratitude.

  “One final question,” he said rubbing his forehead wi
th his fingers. “If I wanted to arrange a meeting with the Empress Plotina, Trajan’s wife. How would I go about it?”

  “The Augusta,” several voices exclaimed at the same time, surprise written across their faces. “You want an audience with the Empress?”

  “I do,” Marcus replied.

  Smiles creased the faces around him as the veterans turned to look at each other with bemused looks.

  “If you go to the imperial palace on the Palatine,” the veteran with the scar exclaimed, “they will simply tell you to fuck off. The Empress is a busy lady apparently. But if you really want to speak to her. There is a new ludus, a school for the children of the rich, that has just opened in the Quirinal district and the Augusta goes there every day to collect her cousin’s children once their lessons are complete. Your best bet will be to go there and try your luck and speak to her whilst she is collecting the children.”

  “What do you want to speak to the Augusta about anyway” one of the veterans asked peering at Marcus with interest.

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that yet,” Marcus replied cryptically.

  ***

  It was late in the afternoon when Marcus finally returned to Janus’s hostel. The man sitting behind the desk on the ground floor was silent as Marcus strode past and started up the stairs. On the small top floor landing Marcus paused and turned to listen, but no one seemed to have followed him up the stairs. Satisfied Marcus knocked on the door and without waiting entered the room. Instantly he sensed that something was wrong. Petrus was standing beside the open window, his fingers in his hair. He whirled round as he saw Marcus, his face contorted with anguish.