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

by William Kelso

  A column of auxiliary cavalry alae, Batavian and Berber, came hastily trotting past the plodding-line of heavy Roman infantry, making towards the boat-bridge. Fergus gazed at them with interest. The savage, wild and exotic looking Berber tribesmen from North Africa were making strange, excited whooping noises as they rode past. Slowly Fergus shook his head. The lightly clad Berbers were riding their small shaggy horses without saddles and reins and seemed to be armed only with multiple light throwing javelins. He had never seen such warriors before.

  Up ahead the legionaries had started to cross the four thousand feet long, makeshift wooden pontoon bridge that had been built across the river. The timber bridge was groaning, creaking and swaying slightly as thousands of iron, hobnailed army-boots clattered across it. As he finally approached the riverbank, Fergus could see that the opposite shore of the Danube was obscured by a heavy bank of morning mist. The boat-bridge loomed up before him. Crossing over onto the wooden deck that the Roman engineers had built over the long rows of back-to-back boats, Fergus gazed suspiciously into the brown river water. One false move and the weight of his equipment would mean he would go straight to the bottom of the river. Then resolutely he lifted his head and gazed at the mist-shrouded bank of the Danube ahead of him. Whatever fate awaited him in the mountains of Dacia, he had resolved, he was going to make his grandfather Corbulo and Marcus his father, proud.

  Chapter Twenty-One – Early lessons

  On the horizon to the north and east Fergus could see the beautiful snow-capped mountains rising six or seven thousand feet. The rugged, boulder-strewn slopes and spurs of the western Carpathian foot hills were heavily covered in thick, brown and green forest and here and there, jagged rock-faces and cliffs jutted out above the trees. It was a cold, fresh and surprisingly clear morning and along the gently sloping, open and lush valley floor, in which he was standing, the white, foaming water from the small river came cascading over the rocks as it twisted and turned on its journey towards the Danube. Idly Fergus adjusted his white focale, neck-scarf and drew his cloak tighter around his body as he slowly made his way along the stream, glancing at the party of pioneers and engineers who were hard at work constructing the road. The dull thud of their pickaxes and shovels, the grunting of the oxen and the rush of the stream filled the valley with noise. Fergus sighed. A full day had passed since he and his company had crossed the boat-bridge and the sense of anti-climax was overwhelming. Instead of fighting their way along the valley towards the besieged Roman fort at Arcidava, he and the company had been assigned to protect this party of road builders, and if there was ever a truly thankless and boring job, then this surely was it Fergus thought. On their march into Dacian territory the previous day, there had been no sightings of the enemy, except for a few mounted scouts who had appeared from the forests to observe the Roman column. But the Dacian’s had swiftly melted away again into the trees when a group of Batavian riders had tried to engage them.

  Bored, Fergus turned to gaze towards the western horizon. There were no mountains in that direction and from his vantage point, the land seemed flatter and more open as it fell away towards the great Hungarian plains beyond. A couple of hundred yards away, across the sloping and grass-covered valley, the trees of a large, dark and impenetrable-looking forest had pushed their way down the gentle slope towards the river. For a moment, Fergus turned to study the forest and as he did, he raised his hand to his chin and frowned in sudden concern. The eighty-four legionaries of his company were spread out in small groups along the section of road that was being built. The men were sitting in the grass or standing about looking as bored as he was. Looking troubled, Fergus turned to gaze down the valley and then up it. The party of road builders and his company were the only Roman’s in sight.

  “What’s the matter?” Lucullus asked as the Centurion came up to Fergus and glanced in the direction in which Fergus was staring. “Something wrong, Fergus?”

  “I don’t like the look of that forest Sir,” Fergus said, pointing at the trees. “Maybe we should place a picket along the tree line. Anyone could be watching us from those trees Sir and we are vulnerable out here in the open, scattered about. Maybe we should bring the men in closer together.”

  Lucullus placed his hands on his hips and grunted as he turned to examine the forest. Then he turned towards the pioneers and grunted again.

  “All right do it. Bring the men in closer together. I suppose we just need to guard the road-builders and not the actual road. Hell, they have given us a shit job. This should be a task for an auxiliary unit, not us,” the centurion said, with a weary shake of his head. “But maybe tomorrow will be different. And Fergus, the men’s next meal will be at noon, not before and no wine until sunset,” Lucullus added giving Fergus a little stern nod as he started up the slope towards the two oxen and wagons, which contained the detachments food, wine rations, the pioneer’s equipment and a huge heap of stones.

  “What about the picket at the edge of the forest, Sir?” Fergus called out.

  “Nah, no need, if someone likes to watch us, then let them,” Lucullus replied without looking round as he stomped away. “I am not going to spend the day chasing ghosts.”

  Fergus bit his lip. Then he reached for his whistle that hung on a cord around his neck and gave it several loud blasts. As the scattered groups of legionaries slowly began to drift closer together, Fergus turned to gaze at the pioneers. Some of the road builders were on their knees. One group, working ahead of the rest, was hewing out a trench and layering it with big stones. A second group followed adding broken stones, cement and sand to form a firm base whilst a third group followed the second group, slotting the tightly-fitting paving stones into place. A fourth group was digging a drainage ditch along the side of the road and fitting the kerb stones. The whole work was being overseen by a young, serious-looking engineer who strode in between his men, diligently checking their work. The pioneers progress was slow but steady and as he gazed at them, toiling away, Fergus was suddenly glad that it wasn’t him doing this back-breaking work.

  It was an hour later when a small sudden movement along the edge of the forest caught Fergus’s eye. Alarmed, he straightened up. Amongst the trees a horseman had appeared. The man’s horse was covered in fine layers of scale armour and he was holding a long heavy looking-lance. Then before Fergus could react, the rider raised his lance in the air, turned his horse towards the men down in the valley, and to Fergus’s amazement, he charged. Moments later the forest erupted with savage screams and yells as forty, heavily-armoured horses and cavalrymen, clutching similar lances, burst from the cover of the trees and came charging into the open valley and towards the spot where Fergus stood rooted to the ground.

  “Cataphracts!” a Roman voice screamed. “Sarmatian cataphracts!”

  Along the line of the road the pioneers paused and stared in growing dismay at the heavily-armoured Sarmatian cavalry thundering towards them. Then as one, the labourers dropped their tools, broke and fled with loud, terrified screams.

  Fergus’s eyes widened in horror at the sight. Then he was moving and shouting at his men. There was no time to wait and see what Lucullus was doing.

  “Prepare to receive cavalry, repel horsemen, repel horsemen, move, move,” he roared, frantically turning on the legionaries around him. For a moment, the men seemed stunned by the surprise assault bearing down on them but it did not last, and as their training and drilling kicked in, the legionaries grabbed their shields and spears and came rushing up to Fergus and hastily began to form their small-square formation. Fergus drew Corbulo’s sword and snatched his shield from where it lay on the ground. Around him the legionaries were still frantically forming their small, tight square. The men, standing shoulder to shoulder had split into two ranks, with the front rank down on one knee, protected by their large shields, which overlapped with their neighbours. The legionary spears pointed outwards and the tightly packed square bristled like a hedgehog, a small oasis of safety in the open valley.
Dimly Fergus was aware of Lucullus shouting something, but his voice was drowned out by the wild screams and yells of the Sarmatian cavalry, who were now nearly upon them. Wildly Fergus turned and saw that the pioneers were fleeing for their lives, scattered across the valley. He should have ordered them into the middle of the protective square, but there had been no time and now it was too late to call them back. The pioneers were on their own.

  “Brace, brace, men, hold, hold your positions, those horses will not charge onto our spears, stay in formation,” Lucullus roared from close by, as the last of the company’s men came sprinting up into their positions. Fergus turned to stare at the enemy. The forty Sarmatian cataphracts, heavily-armoured horses and their riders, had formed a tight wedge-formation as they came surging towards the tightly-packed square of legionaries. But at the last moment, the Sarmatians veered away from the solid rows of Roman spears and shields and as Fergus stared at them in horrified fascination, the horsemen expertly swept around the flanks of the Roman square and with excited cries and yelps set off in pursuit of the fleeing pioneers. Close by, a solitary spear thudded into one of the legionary’s shields and attached to the spear was a man’s shrunken, bloody head.

  “Fuck,” Fergus muttered as his mouth dropped open. But there was no time to stare at the gory sight. Across the valley floor the Sarmatian formation had broken up as the riders began to mow down and slaughter the desperate, fleeing road builders. Fergus’s face grew pale as he turned to stare at the massacre. The pioneers stood absolutely no chance against the heavy enemy cavalry and as their terrified screams and cries for pity began to fill the valley, Fergus bit his lip in horror.

  “There is nothing we can do for them,” Lucullus’s harsh panting voice said beside him. “They shouldn’t have run. Those Sarmatian horsemen are allies of the Dacian’s. My brother has faced them. He said it was not a pleasant experience.” Gasping for breath, Lucullus glared at the enemy horsemen and the slaughter that was now taking place across the valley. In his hand the centurion was grasping his sword. Then he wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looks like they are just a raiding party,” Lucullus growled. “We must stay in formation. That’s all we can do. Someone will come to investigate soon or later. We must be patient. To take that lot on, we would need archers, artillery or cavalry and we have none.” Then giving Fergus a hasty, grateful-glance Lucullus touched Fergus’s shoulder. “That could have been us out there if we hadn’t reacted in time. Well done Fergus, well done, you saved us today.”

  Fergus said nothing as he stood gazing at the massacre. The Sarmatians were now openly showing their contempt by casually trotting around and finishing off and robbing the wounded and dying who were lying scattered across the valley and amongst the rocks of the river. The enemy did not seem the slightest bit concerned by the tightly packed formation of legionaries, huddled together in the grass.

  “Shit,” Fergus hissed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two – The Storming of Berzobis

  The Roman fort of Arcidava was a smoking ruin. It was noon as the long column of weary, mud splattered and heavily laden legionaries and their mules silently trudged on along the muddy and slippery track towards the destroyed and ruined gates of the fort. A pillar of black smoke was still rising from the remains of the fort and in the grey overcast sky the wind was driving the rain straight into Fergus’s face. The mud was everywhere, caking his boots, smeared into his armour, on his face and in his hair. Three days had passed since their encounter with the Sarmatian cavalry and since that day it had not stopped raining. Tiredly Fergus glanced up at the fort. Sections of the wooden ramparts had been torn down and lay collapsed, broken and splintered in pools of muddy water. And amongst the wreckage lay the debris of war; arrows, discarded swords, broken spears, lost helmets, battered shields and bodies, all testament to the ferocious fighting that had taken place. A feral dog was sniffing around in the debris and at the corners of the fort, the watch towers were nothing more than smouldering, blackened wrecks. But in the one remaining undamaged tower, a Roman banner fluttered proudly in the wind. As Fergus approached the gates a squadron of Batavian horsemen came trotting past, their hooves sending up a shower of mud in their wake.

  “What the hell happened here?” Catinius muttered as he turned to stare at the devastation.

  No one replied and as Fergus plodded into the fort, he saw the long lines of bodies laid out in rows beside the track and covered with blankets. A group of wounded, exhausted and shattered looking auxiliaries, were sitting together on the ground beside the track, huddled under sodden blankets. They were staring at the column of silent legionaries with dull, shrunken and listless faces as they passed. One of the exhausted survivors with a bloody bandage tied around his forehead, was still clutching his shield with a name scrawled across its front.

  “Heh,” Aledus called out from further up the column, as he pointed at the man’s shield, “Why write a name on your shield?”

  “It’s the name of our commander,” the survivor shouted back. “We wrote his name across our shields because the Dacian’s use our equipment. It is the only way we could tell our boys and the enemy apart.”

  “I was here during the first war. You are marching into hell,” another called out in a voice that trembled with emotion. “Good luck to you.”

  Fergus averted his eyes from the auxiliaries and turned to look up the long column of plodding men who were heading northwards. He had no idea how the war was progressing or whether Rome was winning or losing. There had been no news but they were still advancing and the signs of ferocious Dacian resistance were everywhere. They had all seen the tall, billowing columns of black smoke rising from the mountains in the distance and the pale, shattered faces and bodies of the wounded being transported back to the rear. Tiredly Fergus raised his hand to pick a piece of mud from his eye. Lucullus had told him nothing except to say that the main part of their force was advancing towards the fort at Tibiscum and that their vexillation, the thousand heavy-infantry from the Twentieth, had been given the task of securing their flank by taking a small enemy held fort called Berzobis, wherever the hell that was.

  At dusk, as the weary, silent column of some fifteen hundred men, with their mules, wagon mounted artillery, detachment of Syrian archers and Batavian cavalry escort was crossing rolling, open country, a trumpet finally announced the end of the day’s march. Relieved the men came to a halt and as the officers began to shout their orders the legionaries led their mules off the track and began to unload their tents and cooking ware. As the soldiers settled down to rest and prepare their evening meals Fergus strode away from the camp and some distance into the grassy fields. Fumbling with his undergarments he finally and with a relieved grunt, had a piss. When he was done, he turned to gaze to the north. In the fading light, the flat open plains were nearly devoid of any trees or cover and they stretched away to the horizon. It was perfect, magnificent horse country, open and covered in lush grass and as he gazed at the fine view, Fergus suddenly noticed a group of horsemen watching him.

  “Oh shit,” he hissed, stumbling back in fright. Hastily, his eyes fixed on the riders, he started to back away towards the Roman camp but the riders did not move. They seemed content to just watch. Hurrying back to the camp, Fergus called out to warn the sentries and a moment later he caught sight of Lucullus and the company’s tesserarius, watch commander.

  “Horsemen,” Fergus cried out, turning to point in the direction of the watchers. “There are horsemen over there, Sir.”

  “I know,” Lucullus growled turning to stare in the direction in which Fergus was pointing. “Our Batavian scouts say that they have been following us all day. But don’t worry, they are not Dacian’s. They are Iazyges, barbarians from the steppes and we are not at war with them. They are probably just keeping an eye on us as we are so close to their homeland. The tribune has issued strict instructions that we are to avoid any hostile contact with them.”

  “Now you tell me,” Ferg
us muttered angrily to himself, as the centurion strode away.

  ***

  Along the river escarpment the legionaries had thrown up a crude, earthen rampart which had been lined at intervals with sharpened, wooden stakes, cut from the nearby forest. The fire-hardened stakes had been thrust into the ground at an angle so that they pointed straight at the enemy, forming a rudimentary barrier. In addition, some of the legionaries had wedged their shields into the top of the rampart, forming a protective wall. Crouching on the ground, Fergus carefully lifted his head above the earthen rampart and peered at the Dacian held fort that sat on a small rocky rise, just across from the raging, rushing river. A narrow wooden footbridge, only a few feet wide spanned the torrent but there was a gaping hole in the middle, breaking the bridge into two sections and making it impassable. Beyond the bridge, a steep, stony track led the short distance up to the fort’s main gate. Peering at the fort, Fergus suddenly hissed as he caught sight of the wooden stake that had been driven into the ground just in front of the enemy gates. Shackled to the stake by his ankles and with his hands tied behind his back was a Roman prisoner. The man was calling out for water, his chin resting on his chest and he looked in a bad way. Crouching beside Fergus, Aledus stirred.

  “The sentries spotted him this morning,” Aledus muttered. “I think those fuckers are trying to provoke us into sending a rescue party across the river. But that would be a bad idea. Look,” he gestured towards the bodies of two legionaries who lay sprawled at the river’s edge. Both men had been killed by arrows. “They have the whole river bank covered. Anything that goes over these ramparts is likely to find an arrow with his name on it heading straight towards him.”

  Fergus did not reply as he stared at the scene. Across the narrow, raging river Berzobis was small, but its wooden ramparts and watch towers looked sturdy and well-designed, making use of the natural contours of the land. As he studied the enemy positions, Fergus suddenly caught sight of the Dacian sentries standing on the ramparts staring back at him. The men’s strange domed helmets glinted in the morning sun.