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

by William Kelso

Aledus took a deep breath and looked away. “He hasn’t been the same since that night assault. I think there is something wrong in his head,” Aledus said, tapping his head with his finger. “He wakes up in the middle of the night and says crazy shit, like we are all going to die. A lot of what he says doesn’t make sense.”

  “Shit,” Fergus muttered shaking his head in bewilderment. Then he rounded on Aledus. “But we can’t have this happening again. You heard Lucullus. The centurion will crush him if he shows such disobedience again. You know the rules, you know the punishments.” Fergus reached out and poked his finger into Aledus’s chest. “You and the boys need to keep an eye on Vittius, don’t let him get himself into trouble again. I am counting on you.”

  ***

  It was getting dark when Fergus heard a sudden commotion close to the entrance of the marching camp. Turning to peer in the direction of the gates, he saw the sentries running along the top of the newly erected ramparts but there was no general alarm and as the seconds ticked by, the commotion seemed to die down. Finishing the last of his wine ration in one go, he dumped his cup beside his marching pack and with a frown set off to investigate.

  As he approached he could see that a large group of Roman soldiers had gathered at the gates and were staring at something or someone. Then the mass of men started to move apart and moments later Fergus caught sight of bearded strangers, wearing Dacian style clothing and domed helmets. The newcomers were being led towards the tribune’s tent in the centre of the camp. Fergus sucked in his breath. The new arrivals were Dacian’s. There was no doubt. Hastily he caught hold of a soldier’s shoulder and gestured at the strangers.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A party of Dacian’s just rode into the camp,” the soldier replied, “They say they have come to surrender. They are going to interrogate them now. Looks like we are winning.”

  Fergus raised his eyebrows as he watched the Dacian’s disappear into the tribune’s tent. Then with a little shake of his head he turned and headed back towards his own tent.

  He was woken by a hand shaking him awake. “Fergus, get up and come and with me,” Lucullus growled sternly.

  Startled and bleary-eyed, Fergus got to his feet. He was already fully clothed and outside the tent he could see that it was still dark. The camp around him still seemed to be asleep. Lucullus was waiting for him at the entrance to the tent. The centurion already had his armour and helmet on.

  “Put it on later,” Lucullus snapped as Fergus moved towards where his own armour was lying on the ground, “The tribune is holding an O group. He wants all his centurion’s to be present. Something has come up.”

  “Sir,” Fergus replied quietly, as he followed Lucullus out into the early morning darkness. As the two of them strode along the long lines of army tents Fergus hastily glanced at Lucullus.

  “I appreciate you asking me to join these O Groups Sir,” Fergus said quietly. “I know you don’t have to bring your second in command to these meetings. I know many of the other centurions don’t.”

  “Nonsense,” Lucullus snapped, his eyes fixed on the tribune’s tent up ahead. “If something were to happen to me, then you would have to take over command of the company. So, you may as well know what is going on.”

  In the darkness, Fergus shrugged. “And what is going on Sir?” he muttered.

  But Lucullus did not reply.

  Chapter Twenty-Five – In Defence of the Marisus River Valley

  The young aristocratic tribune who was in command of the battlegroup was sitting at the rectangular table inside his spacious, richly decorated tent. The commander was playing with the tip of an army pugio - knife. A brazier was burning in one corner, filling the tent with flickering reddish light. Outside it was still dark and the trumpets that would order the camp to wake and rise, had not yet sounded. Around the table, standing facing the young commander were the battle group’s senior officers, their plumed-helmets casting shadows against the fabric of the tent. The officers remained silent as they waited for their commander to speak.

  “Gentlemen,” the tribune said thoughtfully as he played with his knife. “The party of Dacian’s who rode into our camp yesterday did so because they wanted to surrender. They say that Decebalus has lost the war. But they have also brought us some news. Today’s march will take us down into the Marisus valley and we shall have to cross the Marisus river. The Dacian’s tell me that the bridge across the river has been destroyed but that they are willing to show us where we can ford the river. They say that there is a spot a mile or so upstream from the bridge, where the water level is low enough for our wagons to cross. The Dacian’s tell me that once we are across the river the shortest and most direct route towards their fortress at Rosia Montana leads through a vast forest. They also tell me that Bicilis, their general, will not contest our river crossing but that he is waiting for us in the forests, along the route that he expects us to take. He plans to ambush us in the forest. His men are already waiting for us.”

  Seated at his table the young tribune looked up at his officers with a confident but thoughtful expression. “I may well be in command of this battle group but you gentlemen are the army’s long-term professionals so I want your opinions on this matter. Can we trust these Dacian’s and what they are telling us?”

  “Sir,” the prefect in command of the 9th cohort of Batavians said in his guttural and heavily accented voice. “My scouts confirm that the bridge has been destroyed. It would take us several days to repair it at least. As for the river ford, this is the first that I have heard of it. My men tell me that they have seen no sign of the enemy since we left Tibiscum. But my cavalry scouts should be able to warn us of any ambush. That’s our job.”

  “Why would he wait for us in the forests when defending the river would make more sense?” a centurion growled. “Bicilis is no fool and he still has considerable support amongst the Dacian tribes. He could be fortifying that ford as we speak. At some point he must make a stand and fight. The Marisus is an obvious place to make that stand.”

  “Sir,” Rufus said in a calm voice, “if the information that these Dacian prisoners have brought us is true, then we should advance in battle formation. Form the column into a hollow square with our baggage-train in the centre of the box and deploy our Batavian cavalry out onto our flanks.” Rufus paused to clear his throat. “And if they are wrong and Bicilis has decided to fortify the banks of the Marisus, we shall know soon enough. I would suggest that you send a cavalry force to inspect the river ford. We must cross the river at some point, we don’t have a choice. If the scouts think it is passable and there is no sign of the enemy, we cross and immediately fortify ourselves on the opposite bank.”

  “And if Bicilis contests the river crossing?” the tribune snapped gazing at Rufus thoughtfully.

  “If the Dacian’s try to prevent us crossing we should hammer them with our artillery and archers and then force a crossing. It can be done,” Rufus said in a quiet confident voice. “Our men are ready for anything and the Batavian’s are experts at swimming their horses across rivers whilst staying in formation. We would destroy the enemy.”

  “That will take time though,” the tribune replied looking away as he resumed playing with his knife.

  For a while the spacious tent remained quiet.

  “Once we are across the Marisus,” the tribune said thoughtfully, twisting the point of his knife into the wooden table, “the Dacian prisoners tell me that there is another path through the forests which we can take. They are willing to show us the way. It is a longer route and will take us through a gorge and across the tops of the mountains but they say it is safer. Bicilis will not be expecting us to take that route. The Dacian’s claim that we shall be able to avoid Bicilis’s trap altogether.”

  The tent remained silent.

  “You,” the young aristocrat in command of the battlegroup said suddenly pointing straight at Fergus with his knife. “You, who had the bright idea of trying to repair the bridge a
t Berzobis. What do you think? Should we trust these Dacian’s?”

  The tips of Fergus’s ears were suddenly burning as the assembled officers turned to gaze at him. For a moment, he remained silent, struggling to think of something to say.

  “I think Sir,” Fergus said straightening up and looking straight at the tribune, “That you should get a second opinion. It may save our lives, Sir.”

  For a split second the tent remained silent. Then around him the officers burst out laughing and seated at his table the tribune grinned and looked away.

  “I am glad to see that you were paying attention when our general gave his speech beside the Danube,” the tribune replied. “Unfortunately, I only have one set of Dacian prisoners whom I can ask.”

  ***

  It was just after noon as Fergus, plodding along at his usual position at the rear of the company, caught sight of the Marisus through the trees and shrubs that lined its bank. The slow-moving waters of the river glinted and gleamed in the fierce, warm sunlight and a party of water-carriers - slaves, were crouching along its peaceful, open shore, filling their large water skins. In the broad, flattish and open strip of country in which Fergus found himself the river was flowing from east to west. In the distance to the south and north, the horizon was lined by heavily-forested hills and mountains that overlooked the broad river valley. Along the flat, open banks of the river, the long, Roman army columns had turned eastwards and following their officers and proud gleaming standards, were slowly making their way along the southern bank of the river. The trundle and groan of the numerous horse and ox-drawn wagons and the braying of the army mules was mixed with the constant thud of thousands of heavy army boots and the rattle and clinking of equipment.

  In front of Fergus quite a few of his men had turned their heads to stare at the cool refreshing water with longing, but no one fell out of the column. Earlier that day they had passed steaming rock pools of hot, natural spring-water and some of the more superstitious souls had hastily averted their eyes, believing the rising steam to be the breath of the gods.

  Lifting his gaze, Fergus turned to study the northern bank. The forests seemed thicker to the north and further away from the river the land became progressively more wild, mountainous and rugged. Above the dense canopy of the green and brown forest, a group of black birds, seemingly disturbed by something, rose from their perches and flew away towards the west. Fergus watched them go in silence. Then turning his attention back to the plodding column of heavily laden legionaries in front of him, he noticed a group of Batavian cavalry galloping down the line towards him. The rider’s faces were smeared with sweat and dust.

  “What news?” Fergus cried out, “Has the enemy blocked the river crossing?”

  But as the Batavian’s thundered past they did not answer.

  It was an hour or so later when he spotted the ruined bridge. As the Roman column in front of him trudged along the southern bank of the Marisus, Fergus turned to stare at the blackened, broken timbers that lay collapsed and sunken into the river. At the point where the bridge spanned the water, the Marisus looked around forty or fifty paces wide. A little further up-stream Fergus suddenly caught sight of a small Dacian village. The timber walls and high, angular thatched roofs of the Dacian huts were clustered together a respectable distance from the river and smoke was rising from one of the huts. At the water’s edge, a group of Dacian women and children, clad in their long, colourful robes were staring in silence at the Roman infantry, from across the river. Fergus peered curiously at the Dacian’s. Although he could not understand a word of their language, the Dacian civilians they had encountered so far had all seemed to have a proud but resigned attitude. Lucullus had said that after twenty years of near constant fighting with Domitian and now emperor Trajan, the Dacian’s had finally accepted that Rome was going to win. But not all had come around to that view Fergus thought, as he glanced back at the destroyed bridge.

  As his company finally approached the ford in the river Fergus could hear the shouts of the officers up ahead and from the nearby wood, the sound of axes at work. Abruptly, up ahead Lucullus’s loud voice called the company to a halt. Moments later the centurion, in his red plumed helmet, came striding down the ranks of his men towards Fergus.

  “What’s going on Sir?” Fergus called out as Lucullus approached.

  The centurion looked annoyed.

  “The river,” Lucullus blurted out as he came up to Fergus, “the ford is too deep for our men to cross. Those fucking Dacian’s got it wrong. We are going to have to build rafts to get our men across and then once we are on the northern shore the tribune has ordered us to construct our marching camp. Get the men cutting down trees or else we are still going to be here at dusk. Those fucking Dacian’s don’t realise how much kit we have to carry.”

  ***

  Two sturdy ropes had been run across the placid river and in between them, the large rafts were being slowly pulled from one bank to the other by teams of soldiers. It was late and on the northern shore of the Marisus, parties of legionaries and auxiliaries were already hard at work, digging and constructing the day’s marching camp. The bulk of the battle group had already been ferried across the river and only the rear guard was left on the southern shore. Fergus crouched on the raft and gazed at the teams pulling them across the river. Around him, the raft was packed with troops and mules and in the water, stripped to their waist several men were standing in the river guiding the raft along on its way. So, he thought, the Dacian’s had decided not to contest the river crossing and as he stared at the soldiers labouring to construct the marching camp, Fergus wondered if that was a good or bad thing. Idly he glanced sideways at Vittius who was sitting close by. His friend was staring moodily into the water with an unhappy look. Fergus sighed. Vittius had not said a word to him since he had flogged him.

  They were just about to reach the northern bank when a sudden commotion in the meadows beside the river, caught Fergus’s attention. Amongst the hundreds of troops working to build the fort a few men were pointing at something across the open, grassy fields. Following their gaze, Fergus stiffened as he saw a small party of horsemen galloping towards the Roman beachhead. The Romans around Fergus had seen the riders too and their alarmed shouts and cries rent the air. As the raft was pulled up onto the bank the troops streamed onto land and Fergus hastily jumped to the ground, his eyes on the advancing horsemen. One of the riders was holding up a Dacian Draco banner on a pole. The coloured cloth with a gaping, opened mouth, looked like the head of a giant snake as it streamed along in the wind behind the horsemen. And as they came on one of the riders blew on a curved horn.

  Advancing to intercept them, a Batavian cavalry squadron came galloping across the fields their hooves throwing up clumps of dirt. But as the Batavians closed with the Dacian horsemen the enemy riders came to a slow halt and raised their arms in a gesture of parley.

  “They have come to talk,” one of the soldiers standing beside Fergus cried out. And sure enough as the two groups of cavalrymen slowed and cautiously closed with each other, Fergus could see that the Dacians had indeed come with a message. Fascinated, he stared at the scene. Then after no more than a minute, the Dacian horn rang out once more and swiftly the Dacians turned their horses around and rode off towards the edge of the forest from where they had come.

  “What was all that about Sir; what did those Dacian riders want?” Fergus called out as he finally found Lucullus standing beside another centurion.

  “Bicilis sent them,” Lucullus growled. “They were here to deliver a message. Bicilis demands that we immediately retreat across the river. He says that if we don’t, none of us will ever see our families again.”

  ***

  “All men accounted for Sir, the company is ready to move,” the tesserarius said quietly, as he came up to Fergus and saluted.

  “Good,” Fergus murmured, tell the men to follow the standard bearer. And there is to be no noise, none whatsoever. All right, go.”
<
br />   As the tesserarius vanished into the night, Fergus stooped and raised his heavy marching pack over his shoulder. In the darkness around him, the Roman marching camp was alive with hushed voices and the muffled clink of the men’s armour and along the ramparts of the fort, the usual torches were still burning. In the night sky the stars twinkled and gleamed. Dawn was still several hours away but the summer night was warm.

  With a sharp, half-shouted command, the columns of heavily laden legionaries began to march out through the gates of their camp. Fergus clutching his shield and long staff fell in at the rear of his company and peered into the darkness ahead. A few burning torches were already moving across the open meadows; northwards and away from the camp and the river and in the dark, he could hear the faint thud of horses’ hooves and the trundle of wagon wheels. The battle group was trying to slip away from their camp under the cover of darkness. Tensely Fergus bit his lip. Would the Dacian’s notice their departure? The tribune had ordered that the sentries were to remain in the camp until dawn and that the normal camp fires were to be left burning giving the impression that the Romans were still inside. There was no way of knowing whether the ruse would work, but if it did the column would have several hours lead on their enemy. Fergus tightened his grip on his staff. The tribune had decided to believe the Dacian’s who had surrendered to him. The column would be taking the longer, harder but safer route across the tops of the mountains and the Dacian’s would show them the way.

  “Move, move, keep moving,” a Roman voice whispered in the darkness as the column of men came plodding past.

  At dawn Fergus found himself moving up a narrow-forested path that was leading them straight up into the high mountains. The columns of legionaries were snaking their way in single-file up the slope, one column on each side of the track whilst in between them the battle group’s wagons and carts clattered and trundled along. A few men with sprained ankles and the sick and ill were sitting on top of the wagons gazing down at their silent plodding comrades. Ahead, Fergus could see the company’s stoical uncomplaining mules, heads down, their backs and sides laden with packs and equipment. The 2nd cohort and one of the cohorts from the 1st Legion had been assigned to bring up the rear of the column and pick up any stragglers who had fallen along the wayside.