Acheron, who had been lying next to Rufinus’ feet, merely stretched and followed them out, rather than rushing to his master’s rescue as he was manhandled from the building, which is what Rufinus would have preferred from a loyal hound.
There, he was released in the dusty street. He noted that over the past day it had remained sunny and blue, but the temperature had begun to drop as they climbed into the hills and now, emerging from the warm inn with its log fire into the dark, he shivered and wished they would allow him to collect his cloak. But no, they were moving again instantly. Two of the riders seemed to have procured a piglet from somewhere and the thing was struggling in a panic as the two men carried it. Narcissus disappeared for a few moments but, as the scouts moved off into the trees behind the inn, he quickly rejoined them, wearing a grey robe and wielding a long staff decorated with bones and feathers and beads. Incongruously, with this strange, native getup, he had folded part of the robe over his head in the manner of a Roman priest.
They moved through the trees, following directions Rufinus could not fathom, and suddenly arrived in what could only be some sort of sacred space. The trees had been kept clear in a circle wide enough for a village to stand in and, indeed, there were locals there, silent and respectful, waiting. A series of tall wooden posts stood around the circle, each carved in that same local tongue that Rufinus did not know, and each bearing a rather stylised image of a bearded face. At the centre of the circle was a wide stone disc with a runnel, which left Rufinus in no doubt as to its purpose.
Within moments, the place was crowded. The German scouts, the inhabitants and guests of the inn, the local villagers and the visiting Romans were all gathered in a circle around that disc.
Narcissus began by raising both hands imploringly toward the moon, stick rattling in his grip. He started to spout off praise and benediction in a tongue that Rufinus recognised from his time in the wars as a Germanic dialect. This was then repeated, every few sentences, in what he now knew to be Dacian for the benefit of his local visitors, and then Latin for his few Roman guests. Eventually, he turned and locked Rufinus in a blue-eyed, ursine gaze.
‘Great Mercury and Hercules, Mars and Minerva, Derzelas and Zalmoxis, and…?’
He paused, and Rufinus realised the whole glade was watching him expectantly. At his shoulder, Senova shouted ‘Sacred Brigantia, mother of battle and protector of the people!’
There were nods of approval around the circle.
‘Er… Fortuna, lady of… er… fortune,’ he announced rather weakly. There was another pause, while everyone looked at him as though something were growing out of his head, and then Narcissus shrugged and threw his hands higher. ‘Brigantia and Fortuna! On this most auspicious night of hunting moon and stars aligned like killers,’ Rufinus looked up, and wondered what shape killers were supposed to take, since it all looked rather random to him. ‘Hear our plea,’ finished the centurion-priest. ‘Favour your people, protect this village and the honourable travellers passing through. Bestow bounty upon these folk of your lands and keep the harm of rebels and raiders and wicked overlords from their door.’
Rufinus wondered idly if he represented the category of wicked overlords in this gathering, but no one seemed to be bothered by his presence. The piglet was brought forward by the two scouts and Rufinus watched as it was ritually sacrificed on the circular stone disc, Narcissus up to his elbows in blood. One by one, the people in the crowd stepped forward and the centurion bestowed some kind of benediction upon them by marking their forehead with the pig’s blood. There was a sense of immense satisfaction at the successful conclusion of the rite, and each marked man or woman walked away with a contented smile. Senova hurried forward as soon as there was a gap, urging Luca to come along with her. Rufinus hung back. He wasn’t sure whether Fortuna would approve of his celebrating her with barbarian rituals alongside Dacian gods. He rolled his eyes as Senova returned, marked, and took Acheron forward, and he almost exclaimed his disbelief when Narcissus marked the dog using the same words as he had for the people. It was all made slightly surreal and humorous thereafter, as other folk rushed forward to be marked while Acheron tried to hustle them aside and lick the blood from both the priest’s limbs and the stone disc. Soon, though, everyone but Rufinus was marked, and the centurion looked at him expectantly.
‘You would do the gods dishonour and miss out on their favour?’ he asked in Latin.
Wearily, and nervously, Rufinus stepped forward. He would never be able to explain what he felt afterwards, but as the centurion marked him on the forehead with some arcane barbarian symbol, the young Roman felt an odd frisson of electric energy run through him, his hair crackling and standing proud. He stepped back in a mix of wonder and alarm, and Narcissus pronounced the rite at an end, heaving the remnants of the carcass from the disc onto the grass in front of Acheron, who went to work devouring the remains.
Rufinus tried not to watch, still wondering and slightly alarmed at the result of the ritual. They returned to the inn, the locals all thanking the priest for his work, many of them giving him small gifts, which he took with a solemn nod. Rufinus fell in with Senova and Luca as they walked, trying not to pay too much attention to the great black dog that was triumphantly carrying half a disembowelled piglet at his side.
‘That was strange.’
‘To you,’ Senova said. ‘It was different from home, but not by too much.’
‘I don’t mean the ritual. I could see reflections of Rome in that. But when he put the blood on me, I felt… I don’t know. I don’t know what I felt. But I felt something.’
‘You felt the gods,’ Senova said with disturbing confidence.
‘You felt it too?’
‘Of course. You feel the presence of the gods at such a time. Otherwise what would be the point in such a ritual or priests?’
Rufinus could not answer that, and the fact disturbed him. He realised with a start that he had attended appropriate rites his whole life, including the ones held on a legion’s parade ground, and yet he’d never once felt the strange energy he’d experienced tonight. When they arrived at the inn and Narcissus was there, back in his customary uniform, Rufinus looked at the centurion with a whole new level of awe. He had been right in Apulum: he really had fallen on his feet, and Fortuna was with him, more so now than ever before. Back in the inn’s common room, the owner distributed his throat-searing liquor freely and with wild abandon. Rufinus prepared himself for the embarrassment of refusing and was surprised when Senova took his cup and filled it for him.
‘Special occasion. Don’t get used to it.’
There was precious little chance of that. Two cups of the stuff and his throat and chest felt like Crassus must have when the Parthians poured molten gold into his mouth. He longed for wine, but realised that there was none on offer. Probably a good thing. He awoke the next morning with a strange, positive feeling and, incredibly, no hangover.
The third day was much the same as the day before, though Rufinus noted a slight change in the attitude of the scouts. Though the jokes still flew and they maintained their laughter, there was a constant sense of awareness and concern about them that confirmed Rufinus’ opinion of their professionalism. The hills became higher again, and Rufinus could see odd, red-gold rock formations poking from the tops of the trees. The third night was spent in the barns of some kindly farmer, who Narcissus praised and paid with good copper coins. Ironic, since the ground beneath them probably contained gold.
The fourth day was even colder, a chill wind running along the valley beneath incongruous blue skies and amid blossoming trees. Only an hour after they set off, they took a side valley, and now more scouts than ever were sent out to keep an eye on the land around them.
‘We are close?’ Rufinus asked Narcissus, bringing Atalanta alongside the centurion.
‘We shall be in Alburnus Maior by nightfall,’ the big man replied, though his eyes were straying constantly around the valley.
‘You expec
t trouble?’
‘Always. It’s the job of a scout, to expect trouble. But yes, there is something in the air. Keep your hand on your sword, my praetorian friend. You will need it before the sun is high. Did you hear about the young man whose father bought him one of a pair of mules?’
Rufinus shook his head.
‘He ran down to the market and bought the second, because he would never do anything half-assed.’
Neither of them laughed. Rufinus dropped back and fell in alongside the carriage. ‘Narcissus expects trouble.’
Senova nodded. ‘I can feel it in the air. It’s like the hour before a thunder storm.’
What was it with these Celtic people? All Rufinus could feel was cold and an itch somewhere he couldn’t scratch in front of a lady. ‘Anyway, you have my spare sword and the silver spear in the gear. I suggest you get the former out. Just in case.’ He left her arming herself, passed up his dagger to Luca, and rode forward once more. Acheron had moved into a hunter’s lope alongside. Even the dog sensed danger.
Finally one of the riders – Julius Rathold, Rufinus remembered – came hurtling back from the valley ahead. ‘Warriors lie in wait, Hailagaz. By some rocks ahead.’
‘Details.’
‘A dozen. Well armed and armoured but on foot. Dismounted Roxolani, I’d say.’
The centurion nodded and turned to Rufinus. ‘A difficult decision. If they are lurking, and Rathold knows an ambush when he sees one, then they mean to fight. We are twenty two to their twelve, but they are well armoured warriors. We will win, but there will be casualties, and these men are all my brothers. I do not throw them away for good reason. Talk to me.’
Rufinus fretted. ‘Is there another way around?’
‘Two days extra. And probably similarly watched over.’
‘Why would the Roxolani be here?’ Rufinus asked, remembering the map, which placed their people some hundred and fifty miles east of here, all the way across Dacia.
‘They move where the fighting is,’ the centurion replied. ‘Mercenaries for hire as often as not. If they are setting an ambush for us, then either someone is paying them to do so, or their pay has run dry and they have turned to banditry. Such a thing is not uncommon.’
Rufinus nodded, remembering the ex-legionaries who attacked them in the marshes. ‘I need to get to Alburnus Maior, Narcissus.’
‘If it has a cost in the blood of my riders, I need to know why.’
‘I asked you to trust me,’ Rufinus said, plaintively.
‘Trust works both ways, praetorian. We have gone out of our way for you and taken you into the brotherhood, yet you will not trust us with your reasons?’
Rufinus felt a hole opening up beneath him. He was so close. He would never get another chance to come here, and could imagine no other way to secure the proof he needed. He swallowed.
‘I believe that the governor in Apulum is up to no good.’
‘That is in the very nature of governors,’ Narcissus said.
‘I have good information that Clodius Albinus has been siphoning off large quantities of gold from Alburnus Maior that was meant for the imperial coffers. He has already killed a procurator, if my information is to be believed, and has covered his tracks in Apulum. The only place left that there might be evidence is at the source, in Alburnus Maior, so you see why I have to go there. I am here for the emperor himself,’ a white lie, since Cleander had signed the orders but then, as Albinus had said, Cleander now wielded the emperor’s power. ‘I am here to investigate Clodius Albinus for the imperial administration.’
Narcissus’ eyes narrowed, bringing those great hairy brows low.
‘This is for the emperor.’
‘Of course. I am a praetorian. It is in my very duty. Everything I do is for the emperor.’
The centurion nodded. ‘You will remember, when it matters, how the Numerus exploratorum Germanicianorum helped you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then we ride and we kill Roxolani. Come, my praetorian brother.’
With a shouted command, the unit burst into lively activity. Two men dropped back to protect the carriage and its occupant while the others adjusted their equipment and several more riders emerged from the trees to either side of the road in answer to the call. Moments later there were sixteen of them, moving at pace and in unison along the valley, Rufinus amid the scouts.
‘What will the Roxolani be like?’
Narcissus coughed. ‘They are horsemen in the main, like other Sarmatians, but if they are setting an ambush it will not be on horses. Prepare for spears and traps.’
They rode on and after a short while, curving round the valley, Julius Rathold pointed to a small collection of amber rocks at the valley side. ‘There. Behind those rocks. A game trail runs parallel, above in the woods, from which I saw them.’
Narcissus nodded. ‘Rathold, take seven men and ride for the lower edge of the rocks making plenty of noise. Watch for ropes. Dismount at the approach and go in carefully on foot. Keep them occupied.’
The deputy saluted and gestured to a group of riders, who trotted off down the valley toward the rocks. Narcissus gestured to the rest of them and then up to the trees at their right. It took Rufinus a moment to spot the trail, an arch of darkness amid the tree boles, but with Narcissus in the lead, they rode into the treeline and out of the open valley. Rufinus thanked a number of gods for his experience on horseback in the forests of northern Hispania. Most infantry plonked into a saddle would have been out of it within ten heartbeats trying to ride such a narrow trail. Thin branches whipped at them and they were repeatedly forced to duck or lean-to avoid thicker limbs. Finally, they passed a more open glade and caught sight of the rocks below. Rufinus could hear the sound of fighting already in the open air.
‘They are in trouble.’
Narcissus shook his head. ‘They are holding the enemy, not risking themselves. Rathold knows what he’s doing.’
They emerged from the game trail at the top of a grassy incline with the rocks below them. The Roxolani were already engaged with the other scouts, who had rounded the rocks on foot.
‘For Woden!’ bellowed Narcissus, and the cry was taken up by the other riders with him as they kicked their steeds into speed, racing down the hill at the enemy. Rufinus found to his embarrassment that he had automatically invoked the Germanic god without thinking, but raced down the hill alongside the others. Once more he was grateful for his years of experience in the saddle. Riding straight down a steep slope without coming to grief was every bit as much of a skill as riding through a wood at speed.
The scouts levelled their spears and closed. The Roxolani suddenly turned at the realisation of a new threat emerging on the hillside, and half of them broke away from the fight, bringing their spears around. It was then that Rathold finally released the killers at his command, who had been simply keeping the enemy busy. As the Roxolani turned, Rathold’s scouts began to attack like demons, swords biting, spears impaling. Rufinus wondered whether he would even get his sword wet before the dismounted scouts killed everyone. Acheron raced alongside, snarling, seeking a kill.
The riders from the hillside hit the pitiful, confused remnant of the Roxolani like Vulcan’s hammer. Rufinus managed one slash with his sword in passing, drawing blood, but as he turned Atalanta and went in for the kill, the wounded man had already been dispatched by one of Narcissus’ riders. Only one of the enemy remained alive, and he was on the way out, Acheron’s powerful jaws around his throat. In heartbeats it was over. Twelve Roxolani lay dead.
The cost was light in Rufinus’ opinion, though the centurion seemed less pleased. One of the men Rathold had commanded lay on the ground, a spear through his gut so far that he could not roll over. Another man had taken a terrible arm wound, white bone visible amid the blood and gristle.
‘Corbus, set the bone and bind the wound,’ Narcissus commanded, then dismounted and went over to the man with the spear through his gut. He crouched by him, whispered a few
things in his ears that brought a weak smile from the doomed rider, then swiftly dispatched him with a blow through the heart The centurion rose and crossed to Rufinus as he dismounted.
‘One dead, one badly wounded. For the emperor,’ he reminded Rufinus.
‘For the emperor.’
As the wounded man was tended and a shallow grave dug for the remains of the dead rider then piled above with stones in a cairn, the others went through the possessions of the Roxolani. Rufinus stood to one side, watching the carriage and its escort arrive and two more scouts returning from their circuits. Narcissus finally walked over to him, carrying two things.
‘Mercenaries. Who paid them, I do not know. They had this,’ he said, passing over a large gold nugget. ‘Whether that was pay or loot, I cannot say, but they were not looking for us, else their response would have been more effective. We were a target of opportunity only.’
Rufinus took the other thing from the centurion. It was a legionary gladius of good manufacture. Near the hilt, the blade bore four names, the sword’s various owners, probably having come to Dacia in Trajan’s wars.
L PYLADVS
L A GAMBVRIO
M I FIDVS
P MODESTVS
‘This is a Roman blade.’
‘Quite.’
‘Were they in the pay of Romans?’
Narcissus shrugged. ‘This could just have been loot, taken from the dead some time in the past. Or, yes, they could have been paid by Romans, but what would be the purpose? The mine owners would lose out, for they cannot ship their gold. The miners themselves are little more than slaves, and often precisely slaves, and cannot afford to hire men. Why a soldier or officer would want to employ mercenaries to disrupt mining I cannot understand, and if the governor is, as you say, taking an unhealthy cut from the top, to do this would ruin him as much as anyone else.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘Yet these men remain in the area and Albinus does nothing about them, sitting in his fortress at Apulum while gold supplies fail to flow. And the Dacian rebels turn out to be Roxolani mercenaries. I don’t understand why, but I feel that Albinus is behind this somehow.’
Eagles of Dacia Page 20
