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

by William Kelso

  “Ah fuck, fuck, fuck,” Aledus cried out in pain, “They cut my arm, they cut me.”

  In the darkness, a Dacian falx slammed into Aledus’s shield and with a cry, Fergus responded by jabbing at the darkness beyond with his spear.

  “Aledus move forwards, keep your shield up, Vittius cover our arses,” Fergus yelled at his two comrades and a moment later the two of them, working together, inched forwards, Aledus protecting them with his shield whilst Fergus, edging along right behind him, stabbed over his friend’s shoulder at anything that moved in the darkness. Behind them Fergus could hear Vittius cursing loudly over and over again.

  From within the Roman camp a trumpet rang out. And suddenly, down below them Fergus heard Roman voices. The shouts were drawing closer. From the darkness, an enraged Dacian suddenly flung himself at Aledus, roaring in frustration and as his falx forced Aledus and Fergus backwards, Fergus furiously jabbed at him with his spear but missed. Bracing themselves for the next attack, Fergus jabbed blindly into the darkness but his spear made no contact. Slowly the seconds ticked by and no further attack came.

  Then Roman voices were coming towards them along the walkways.

  “Password! What’s the fucking password?” Vittius yelled in a disturbed voice, as in the darkness the noise drew closer. “You don’t get to pass without giving me the fucking password.”

  From the gloom a centurion’s plumed helmet appeared. For a moment, the officer hesitated as he peered towards Fergus and his companions.

  “Shit, seems some of the guard detail survived,” the officer cried out, turning to the men crouching behind him. “It’s all right boys,” he shouted, turning his attention back towards Fergus. “We have driven them from the camp. The enemy are gone. The attack is over. We won. It’s all right, it’s all right boys.”

  “I still want that fucking password,” Vittius yelled his voice shaking with emotion.

  ***

  It was dawn and to the east the welcome rays of the sun were already warming up the earth. Tiredly, with red-rimmed eyes, Fergus stepped out of the first aid post to which all the battle group’s wounded had been brought and patted Aledus on his shoulder. In response Aledus acknowledged him with a little silent nod. His friend was sitting outside on the ground together with a group of the other less seriously wounded. A white bandage had been wrapped around his arm. The good news was that the wound had not done any serious damage and it would heal given time the doctor had said. In the meantime, Aledus had been placed on light duties. Across from Aledus, Vittius too was sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up under his chin. He was staring silently and fixedly at his boots. Fergus rubbed his tired eyes. Vittius had not uttered a word to anyone since the night assault had been beaten back. The doctor had told Fergus that there was nothing wrong with Vittius but that he was still in shock. Given some rest and time he would return to his usual self.

  “Fergus,” a voice called out from the track that ran the length of the fort. Looking up Fergus caught sight of Catinius. His friend looked as exhausted as himself. “Lucullus told me to find you,” Catinius called out. “He wants you to take a squad to relieve the guards who are looking after the prisoners. They are being held beside the western gate.”

  Fergus nodded and leaving Aledus behind he strode over towards Catinius.

  “All right,” he muttered. Then as he was about to set off to the company’s quarters, he paused and turned to look back at Catinius.

  “Was it you who sounded the alarm? It was quickly done, I remember.” Fergus said, gazing at his friend.

  “Someone has to be responsible, Sir. We can’t all be making jokes and forgetting our duties,” Catinius snapped with a serious expression on his face, as he turned and stomped away through the mud.

  Fergus watched him go. Then with a little grin he turned away and headed towards his company’s quarters.

  ***

  The Dacian prisoners were sitting on the ground in the mud. There were twenty of them and their hands had been tied behind their backs and their ankles were clasped in a long iron slavers-chain that snaked its way through the group. The prisoners looked exhausted and miserable and some of them bore signs of abuse, black eyes, bruises and open wounds from where someone had whipped them. As Fergus approached with the eight-man squad from his company, he suddenly came to an abrupt halt. A few Roman legionaries were standing around guarding the prisoners and amongst them, Fergus suddenly recognised Fronto. The big Tesserarius of the fourth company was clutching a coiled whip in one hand. Catching sight of him, Fronto’s lips split into a cold, unwelcoming smile.

  “Well, well, look what the dog has found for us,” Fronto said, as he glared at Fergus with contempt. “What are you doing here boy?”

  “That’s no way to address a superior officer,” Fergus retorted as he came towards Fronto.

  “So what,” Fronto said. “Do you think that I am afraid of you? You may have sucked Hadrian’s cock to get that promotion but that doesn’t mean you are a better man than me. I piss on you.”

  “I have orders to relieve your men; so get the fuck out of here,” Fergus commanded coming up to Fronto and fixing him with a hard, uncompromising stare.

  “Gladly, they are all yours,” the tesserarius snapped as he raised his hand and gestured at his men. Then without saying another word, he pushed past Fergus and went striding off into the camp, whirling his whip in the air as he went. Annoyed Fergus watched his arch enemy disappear amongst the barracks blocks. Fronto and he shared a long, violent history of conflict that went back to his first days in the legion at Deva Victrix. Fronto’s jealousy, unstable and cruel mind and the fierce competition for promotion, had twice pushed Fronto into trying to murder him. And that had not been the only occasion when there had been trouble between them. At Deva, Fronto and his men had beaten up Aledus, putting him in hospital for several weeks and at Bonna on the Rhine the legal accusations against Fergus seemed to have been started by Fronto. And then there was the assassination attempt in the woods at Carnuntum, which although unproven had Fronto’s fingers all over it. The second attempt on Fergus’s life had been the last straw forcing the senior cohort commanders to promote both and post Fronto to another company. Since then the tesserarius had been keeping a low profile.

  With an angry look, Fergus turned away and as the squad took up their posts around the group of prisoners, he placed his hands on his hips and stared at the Dacians. None of the sullen, bloodied prisoners looked back at him and as he walked around the edge of the silent, miserable-looking group, he could see that Fronto had done a good job at terrorising them with his whip and fist. Fergus was about to hand over the guard duty to the decanus in charge of the squad and walk away, when he noticed a small group of officers and civilians approaching.

  Curiously Fergus waited as the group halted by the prisoners and the civilian amongst them began to speak to the Dacian’s in a foreign language that was completely alien to Fergus. At first the prisoners remained silent, but as the civilian strode in amongst them, talking to them as he did, some of the Dacian’s started to answer back in their own language. At last, looking satisfied, the civilian came up to the gaggle of Roman officers and as he did, Fergus edged a little closer so that he could hear what he was saying.

  “They don’t seem to know much or maybe they are unwilling to tell me,” the civilian translator and interrogator exclaimed with a sigh. “They are telling me that their general is called Bicilis and that he is in command of all Dacian forces in this district. It was he who ordered the night attack on our fort. They say that many of the Dacian tribes are deserting King Decebalus and are trying to make peace with Trajan. But Bicilis is loyal to the king. They say he is going to make a last stand at Rosia Montana and that he may try to destroy all the gold and silver mines in that region. They ask you for mercy and water.”

  “Bicilis,” Fergus called out in surprise, as he took a step towards the officers, “Bicilis. I have heard this name before. The defenders at Berz
obis, they called out his name too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Into the Carpathians

  To the east in the distance, the Carpathian-mountains rose majestically, their high, indomitable snow-capped peaks lining the horizon. Closer by, the steep slopes of the mountains were covered in dense green forest and rocky outcrops. Spectacular white waterfalls, jagged gorges and here and there a high, well-watered pasture, completed the picture. There was no denying it Fergus thought - the rugged mountains of Dacia were beautiful. The wild, lush meadows and forests were well suited for flocks of sheep, cattle and hunting. As he plodded along the narrow track that clung precipitously to the mountainside, Fergus idly glanced down the steep, rocky, boulder strewn and partly forested mountain slope towards the valley. Far below him a river was twisting and turning along the valley floor as it disappeared towards the west. It was late in the afternoon and the five and a half thousand strong battle group had been toiling up the mountain pass all day. There had been no sign of the enemy but, ever since they had set out from Tibiscum, Fergus had noticed that increasing numbers of Dacian civilians, women, children and the old and sick had appeared on their line of march, begging for food and heaping praise on the Roman invaders. Wearily Fergus turned to look up at the fierce summer sun that mercilessly beat down on him. High in the clear blue sky a hunting bird was lazily circling the column, drifting on the air currents. Then far towards the east he caught sight of a towering column of black smoke rising into the clear, blue sky. For more than five weeks after the night assault, the vexillation of the Twentieth had remained in Tibiscum on garrison duty, as they had defended the strategically important Roman fort and supply base and had waited for new orders to arrive. And as they had waited summer had come.

  There had been snippets of news. From Lucullus, Fergus had learnt that the bulk of the Roman forces were continuing their advance towards the east, up the Tibiscus river valley and towards the mountain pass known as the “Iron Gates.” The fighting up there is heavy and fiercely contested the centurion had muttered. And from Rufus, the senior centurion of the 2nd cohort, Fergus had learnt that King Decebalus was concentrating most of his remaining forces on defending the approaches to his capital. Rufus had added that it was true that more and more Dacian tribes were trying to surrender. “King Decebalus is finished,” the senior centurion had stated in a confident voice. The Dacian’s have lost confidence in their king. But that had been several weeks ago, and since then there had been no further news. Then three days ago, the battle group had suddenly received new orders and reinforcements as a complete vexillation from the 7th Gemina Legion from Hispania and four cohorts of the 1st Legion had arrived, together with the infantry companies of the 9th Batavian cohort. The battle group now five and a half thousand strong, was to proceed with all haste across the mountains to the north-east and capture and occupy the important Dacian gold and silver mines around the Dacian fortress of Rosia Montana, a march of some hundred miles deep into enemy territory and across inhospitable mountainous terrain.

  Tiredly, Fergus lowered his head. He could not shake the feeling that their new objective had something to do with the information that he’d heard the Dacian prisoners give to their interrogators in Tibiscum. But the news that they were not to take part in the siege and final assault on the Dacian capital of Sarmisegetusa Regia had not bothered the men. Instead the legionaries had seemed thrilled by the news that they were being sent to capture a district filled with gold and silver mines, for the opportunity to loot some of the Dacian treasure would surely arise during the coming fight.

  At the very rear of the 2nd company, Fergus continued to trudge on up the steep, rough mountain path. From his position, he had a good view of the eighty men of the company and their mules - one animal for each tent group. If any of the legionaries were to fall out of line or wander off, it was his job to get them back into formation but none of the company had yet given him an excuse to use his staff on their backs. Beyond his company, the long column of legionaries and auxiliaries leading their heavily laden mules, was slowly snaking its way up towards the top of the narrow mountain pass. The rhythmic tramp and crunch of the men’s iron-studded boots on the rocky, stony ground and the rolling, grinding clatter of wagon wheels filled his ears. Fergus’s face was covered in sweat and dust and he was thirsty but his small water-skin, dangling from his belt, was already empty. On his head, he had fastened small, reinforcing iron strips to his helmet, like most of the men in his company, and along his arms and legs he had fashioned himself some crude iron and leather arm and leg guards. The addition of the new armour had left him looking a rather motley figure, but he was not the only one who had tinkered with his armour and uniform and the senior officers had raised no objections. Over his left shoulder, he was carrying his heavy marching pack, containing his personal belongings. These included his entrenching tools, his cup, blanket and his two-week grain ration together with two spears. And in his left hand, he was clutching his shield covered in its dust jacket, whilst in his right hand he was using his long optio’s staff as a walking stick. The weight of all his equipment was just about tolerable but the lack of water was making him irritable.

  As Fergus came around a bend in the track he caught sight of a Dacian civilian, an old man with a sunburnt, wrinkled face. The man was clutching a sleek hunting dog tightly by its collar as he stared at the column of heavy Roman infantry plodding past him and up the path. Fergus glanced at the old man as he strode on past and in reply the Dacian called out to him in his unintelligible language. Ignoring the civilian Fergus kept on going up the track.

  ***

  It was early evening and in the lush, high mountain meadow where the senior officers had dictated that the battle group should build the day’s marching camp, the men were hard at work constructing their fort. Set out in a typical rectangular playing card shape several thousand legionaries and auxiliaries were busy working on the V shaped ditch, the earthen embankment and the wooden palisade that together formed the outer perimeter. Across the camp the sound of shovels and pick-axes hacking at the earth, shouts, hammering and sawing echoed away across the mountains. Fergus was supervising the squads who were erecting the company’s white tents, when close by he suddenly heard raised voices and a heated argument break out. Striding around the edge of one of the raised tents he was confronted by Vittius and another man. The two legionaries were nose to nose in an ugly, aggressive stand off and on the ground, lay a loaf of freshly baked bread.

  “What’s going on here?” Fergus cried out, as he came towards the two men clutching his wooden staff.

  Close by a group of legionaries had paused in their work and were staring at the confrontation.

  “This piece of shit here,” the aggrieved-sounding man cried out, raising his finger and pointing it menacingly at Vittius, “just tried to steal my bread. The man is a thief.”

  Confronting him, Vittius hissed and aggressively thrust his face towards his opponent. “Lies,” he cried. “This is my bread.”

  “No, that’s not true,” one of the company squad leaders called out. “We all saw you take the bread, Vittius. It was not yours.”

  Slowly as the standoff fell silent, all eyes turned to look at Fergus, waiting for him to say something and make a decision.

  “Vittius, did you take that man’s bread?” Fergus asked as he came up to the two legionaries and pushed them apart with his staff.

  In reply Vittius lowered his eyes and remained silent and Fergus sighed.

  “What’s going on here?” Lucullus suddenly roared, as the Centurion came striding up, “Why are you men not working? This isn’t a fucking holiday camp.”

  “Vittius here is accused of stealing another man’s bread,” Fergus called out as he turned to face Lucullus.

  Lucullus stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at Vittius.

  “Well,” the centurion growled, “Is it true Vittius?”

  In reply Vittius hissed through clenched teeth but he said nothing as his
eyes remained fixed on his boots. Slowly Lucullus shook his head. Then he glanced at Fergus and reaching out, he handed Fergus his vine staff.

  “Flog him. Ten lashes on his open back,” the Centurion snapped, “And if he does it again it will be fifty lashes and a year’s pay. No one steals in my company, is that understood.”

  Silently Fergus took the Centurion’s vine staff. Then he nodded at the squad leader and his men.

  “Undo his armour and tunic and hold him down,” Fergus said.

  From the corner of his eye, Fergus caught sight of Aledus, Catinius and some of the others rushing towards the scene.

  “Are you going to strike me,” Vittius cried out in sudden anguish as he rounded on Fergus. “I am your friend, I am your friend, Fergus.”

  Fergus said nothing as the legionaries caught hold of Vittius, roughly forcing him onto the ground and once his bare back was exposed, Fergus raised the centurion’s vine staff and brought it down hard on Vittius’s back. In response Vittius yelled in pain. Silently and efficiently Fergus administered the punishment beating and when he was finished, Vittius’s back was a mass of raw, bleeding lines. Handing the vine staff back to Lucullus, Fergus, his face hard and emotionless, gestured for Aledus to follow him. When the two of them were out of earshot Fergus turned to his friend.

  “What the fuck has gotten into Vittius?” he hissed. “Stealing another man’s bread. Has he gone insane?”