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

by William Kelso

  Fergus was forcing an auxiliary back onto his feet when behind him, he suddenly heard a cry. Turning to look down the track he saw a group of men hurrying towards the rear guard led by a centurion, easily identifiable by his plumed helmet. It had to be the men who had been left behind to act as sentries in the marching camp. As the Roman’s re-joined their comrades Fergus caught sight of one of their men hastening alone up the path towards him. The man looked like he was in a hurry and a leather despatch case was slung over his shoulder.

  “What news?” Fergus called out as the man drew level.

  “Dacian cavalry were swarming over the fort when we last caught sight of the place,” the soldier panted as he shot past up the track. “A damn shame to leave all those fine fortifications in their hands. Keep an eye open for their cavalry. It won’t be long before they find us.”

  ***

  It was around noon and the company had reached a heavily forested ridge and were moving along a wide, sandy forest track, when a scream suddenly rent the tranquillity. A moment later with a snapping crack, one of the tall pine trees in front of Fergus slowly toppled over and came crashing down onto the path, along which the Roman column was moving. The crash was followed by confused screams and shouts. Fergus came to an abrupt halt. Then the forest around him was filled with more horrible cracking, splintering noises and before he could react, more trees, on both side of the path, began to slowly topple over and crash down onto the legionaries stranded along the sandy track. And, as more trees came crashing down on the path, the Roman columns on both sides of the track were instantly thrown into a mass of shouting, screaming confusion. Fergus’s face went pale as he turned to look left and then right. They were under attack. They were being ambushed. In the forest, he suddenly caught sight of figures flitting away through the trees. Then a legionary brutally thrust him out of the way and he tumbled onto his arse in the sand, as with a creaking, splintering-crash another tree came crashing down onto the path where Fergus had just been standing a second ago.

  “We’re under attack,” a Roman voice roared from close by, “form a shield wall on both sides of the path, move, move!”

  Still stunned from his near miss, Fergus scrambled to his feet and grabbed his shield and spear. He was just in time to see a volley of arrows come zipping and whining out of the forest, mowing down and striking a dozen men and a mule across from him. The legionaries screamed and tumbled to the ground. As if in slow motion, Fergus stared at the growing chaos, unable to move and then an arrow struck him on his shoulder armour and bounced away.

  “Form a line,” a Roman voice was screaming. But there was no question of forming an organised defence. The crashing trees had cut the Roman rear-guard into isolated, confused segments, forming barriers between the men and their comrades. Then from the forest on both sides of the track a great, harsh, triumphant-roar rose and Fergus felt the hair on his neck stand up. Through the trees, racing towards him he caught sight of hundreds and hundreds of running figures. Mastering his shock, Fergus whirled round and roared at the men closest to him. Then the Dacian’s were upon him. With a savage cry, Fergus battered away a man with his shield and then flung his spear at another who came charging towards him. The spear caught the warrior in his chest, sending him tumbling and crashing to the ground. Ripping his gladius from its scabbard, Fergus desperately raised his shield as another attacker came at him, wheeling a long two handed falx. Terrified by the huge, wicked curved blade, Fergus stumbled backwards against one of the wagons. With a great furious bellow the bearded warrior came at him again and jumping aside at the last moment Fergus slashed at the Dacian with his sword but missed. All around him the forest track had been turned into a mass of vicious, bloody, snarling and confused brawling bodies as men hacked, stabbed and slashed at each other, in a desperate bid to stay alive. From the corner of his eye, Fergus caught a flash of a centurion’s red plumed helmet surrounded by a mass of screaming Dacian warriors.

  His Dacian opponent came at him again and this time he was aided by another man. As the curved blade of the falx came swinging towards the side of his shield, Fergus cried out in terror and ducked. Then launching himself forwards, his shoulder pressed up against his shield like a battering ram, he bowled straight into the Dacian warrior and with a yell, both tumbled onto the ground. The man had lost his grip on his falx and Fergus had lost his shield. Snarling the two of them rolled over the ground in a confused mass or arms and legs, as they fought and struggled to get a grip on each other. As he emerged on top, Fergus’s fingers desperately clawed at the Dacian’s face eliciting a scream of pain. Then yanking his army pugio from his belt, in one smooth move, Fergus rammed the knife into his enemy’s head. There was no time to see what was going on around him. From the corner of his eye, a shadow rose above him and suddenly something hard smashed into his ribs knocking him sideways into the blood-stained sand. Groaning and coughing, Fergus tried to rise but the pain in his side was excruciating. Standing over him, a Dacian raised his falx to finish him off but as the man began to bring the weapon down on Fergus’s head, a legionary thrust his gladius straight through the man’s neck and kicked the dying warrior to the ground.

  Staggering to his feet Fergus, hastily reached out and picked up his shield. Around him the forest path was a scene from hell. Bodies and body-parts lay strewn across the sand and amongst them were discarded shields, weapons, dead horses and mules. Screams, yells and the clash of arms filled the forest with noise. Grimacing with pain, Fergus pressed his hand against his ribs. His armour was stained in blood and seemed to have taken the brunt of the blow, but the blood was not his. Close by a tight-knot of legionaries had formed in the space between two wagons, whose horses lay wounded on the ground, screaming. The men were desperately defending themselves against a large swarm of Dacians, who were threatening to overwhelm them. Suddenly something inside Fergus seemed to snap and his mind filled with rage and energy, an overpowering surge of energy. Stooping, he dropped his shield and instead grasped hold of the Dacian’s two handed falx. Then with a roar he threw himself at the Dacians swinging his great two handed weapon at them. Startled, some of the Dacians turned to face him but the men had little in the way of shields and armour and as Fergus brought the great curved blade of the polearm down on them, he cut them to pieces with a savage, furious, bellowing roar. The falx was devastatingly effective and as Fergus advanced towards the legionaries, scything down anyone in his path, the Dacian’s seemed to hesitate as they caught sight of Fergus’s crazed, blood stained and splattered face bearing down on them. From their position, in between the two wagons, the legionaries suddenly raised a yell and boldly flung their enemy backwards with their shields, their short swords stabbing at the Dacians, as they tried to drive the enemy back. In front of Fergus, a screaming Dacian came charging towards him, his arm raised and clutching an axe but as the man came into range, Fergus’s falx swept in and caught his attacker in his side, nearly cutting him in half. A split second later an arrow thudded into the ground beside Fergus and then another struck a dead man in the head. Someone was targeting him. Without looking up Fergus dashed into the cover of the wagons, slicing open a Dacian, whose back was turned to him. Then he was in amongst the relative safety and protection of his comrade’s shields.

  “To your standard,” a Roman voice was yelling from close by, “defend the standard, defend the standard!”

  Snatching a glance in the direction from which the voice was shouting, Fergus saw Lucullus crouching on top of one of the wagons. The centurion was still wearing his magnificent red-plumed helmet and he was clutching a shield, from which a solitary arrow protruded. In his other hand, he was holding up the company’s banner. Around him a rapidly shrinking number of desperate legionaries were trying to hold off the mass of Dacian’s pressing forwards and intent on striking Lucullus down and capturing the company banner. Fergus’s surge of energy was fading. There was no way he and the few men with him would be able to fight their way to Lucullus’s aid. They c
ould barely hold their own where they were. There were simply too many Dacian’s. As if to press home that point, a party of Dacian warriors launched themselves at the men trapped in between the two wagons and with a furious crash they hammered into the line of Roman shields, forcing the legionaries backwards. But nevertheless, he had to try, Fergus thought, as one of his eyes twitched uncontrollably. Clambering onto the wagon and over the corpses of two dead Romans, Fergus leapt down onto the ground and with a scream, his two-handed falx went scything into the enemy ranks. This is crazy, a voice was screaming at him. You are going to get yourself killed. This is insane. Nevertheless, catching sight of Lucullus, Fergus began to move towards him. But as his falx hammered into a Roman shield, which a Dacian had picked up, the blade suddenly broke leaving Fergus clutching the wooden pole. Fool. Now you are going to die a voice was screaming at him. Staggering backwards, Fergus nearly tripped over a corpse. Clutching the stump of the falx he suddenly realised that he had no weapons with which to defend himself. He was going to die here in this forest, right now. Two Dacian’s, their faces contorted with rage and hatred came leaping towards him from the forest, their wicked looked falxes gleaming in the sunlight. Defiantly, Fergus raised his broken weapon and screamed at the enemy, baring his teeth. But just as the Dacian’s came within striking distance, one of them went tumbling to the ground with a spear protruding from his back and the other swiftly sank to his knees, his hand reaching up to his neck where a long Roman cavalry sword had slashed him. Dazed Fergus stared at the two Batavian riders as they charged past on their horses and on down the path. The Dacian whose neck had been slashed was trying to breath as a great mass of blood was welling up from his neck and from in between his fingers. With a savage cry, Fergus stepped forwards and swung his wooden shaft into the man’s head knocking him onto his back with a sickening crack.

  Along the edge of the forest, more and more Batavian horsemen were appearing, flowing along and over the fallen trees, their spears and swords stabbing and slashing at the enemy and as Fergus grasped hold of a Dacian falx, he heard a Roman trumpet ringing out in the distance.

  The Dacians suddenly seemed to have had enough and as Fergus crouched beside a dead ox and an overturned wagon, he saw them begin to turn and flee into the forest. And as the enemy retreated, the sound of fighting began to slacken until only the hideous screams of the wounded and a few isolated shouts and cries echoed away through the trees. It is over. It is over a voice was screaming at Fergus, as slowly he sank down on his knees in the sand. You are one lucky bastard. Lucky, fool, lucky, fool. Fergus groaned. Then forcing himself to his feet he turned to gaze in the direction in which he had last seen Lucullus and the company standard. The centurion was sitting on top of the stalled wagon and he was still clutching the proud banner. In the sun the standards discs and crescent moon symbols gleamed in the light. Then wrenching his gaze away from Lucullus, Fergus slowly turned to gaze at the utter carnage that stretched away along the forest path. Bodies of men and animals lay strewn everywhere and amongst them, the wounded were shrieking and screaming.

  Stumbling towards the spot where Lucullus was sitting, Fergus picked up a discarded shield and then lent back against the wagon, his chest heaving and his hands suddenly shaking. On top of the wagon the Centurion was panting from exertion as he stared blankly at the devastation. Apart from a cut to his arm he looked unhurt.

  “I tried to come to your aid Sir,” Fergus said, his voice shaking with emotion. “Defend the standard. That’s what you said. And our banner did not fall into enemy hands.”

  Slowly Lucullus raised his hand to wipe something from his face. Then he turned to gaze down at Fergus.

  “I saw what you did,” he said in a weary, toneless voice. “And I will see that you get rewarded for your actions. That was heroic what you tried to do, foolish but heroic.”

  Fergus grimaced as the pain in his ribs suddenly returned with a vengeance and hastily he pressed a hand up against his side.

  “The fuckers ambushed us,” he groaned.

  But on top of the wagon Lucullus shook his head. “No,” he growled, his face darkening, “We were betrayed. Those Dacian’s who surrendered to us. This was their idea all along. I bet it was Bicilis who sent them to us. They led us straight into his ambush. And now,” Lucullus snapped, sliding off the wagon and onto the ground, “I am going to personally ram my sword down their throats.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six – War Crimes

  The horse-drawn wagon groaned and swayed as it rolled along the rocky mountain path under the fierce summer sun. Inside the wagon, Fergus could see the fruits of the day’s foraging; wicker baskets and Roman style amphorae filled with grain; wine and salt; a chicken-coop containing cackling chickens; a barrel and a solitary fat looking pig. All of it had been taken by force from the Dacian village they had just visited. The battle group had to eat. A couple of Syrian archers clutching their powerful composite bows, sat at the back of the wagon keeping guard and, following the cart, a few legionaries were leading three mooing cows by their halters along the path. Spread out around the wagon and along the track, the sixty legionaries from the 2nd company, led by their centurion and eight mounted Batavian horsemen, plodded along in the dusty, summer heat as they headed back towards their camp, five miles away. Fergus, bringing up the rear of the small foraging party, took a swig of water from his water skin and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Two weeks had passed since the ambush in the forest. The fighting had cost the battle group two hundred and fifty-five dead including four centurions and over three hundred seriously wounded and nearly all the casualties had been inflicted on the 2nd cohort and the cohort from the 1st Legion. It seemed that the weight of the Dacian attack had fallen on the rear-guard of the Roman column which, according to Rufus, the cohort’s most senior officer, meant that Bicilis no longer had enough men to attack the whole Roman battle group. It was scant compensation. A quarter of the wounded were still likely to die from their wounds, a doctor had told Fergus. Grimly he turned to stare at the cows ambling along in front of him, their restless tails swinging about. The ambush had mauled the 2nd cohort, reduced the unit to just three hundred or so men capable of active duty and two companies had lost their standards. His own company had lost seventeen dead and seven men, who were too badly wounded for active service. It had been a bitter blow but at least his friends had survived. Idly Fergus rubbed his hand across his ribs. His armour had saved his life, the doctor had told him and although his ribs were badly bruised, they were not broken and they would heal given time.

  Turning to glance at Vittius, who was walking along at the side of the track, Fergus gave him a thoughtful look. Vittius was still refusing to speak to him. His friend had not forgiven him for the flogging.

  “Vittius,” Fergus called out, beckoning to him. “Come over here and walk with me.”

  Vittius glanced up and as he caught sight of Fergus, his face seemed to darken. But he did as was asked.

  As the two of them strode along together at the very rear of the column, Fergus rounded sharply on his friend.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Fergus whispered harshly. “Aledus says that you don’t talk to anyone anymore and that you keep yourself apart. What’s going on?”

  “You beat me, Fergus,” Vittius hissed through clenched teeth. “I thought I was your friend. You humiliated me in front of the whole company.”

  “You were caught stealing another man’s bread,” Fergus retorted. “There were witnesses. You know the rules, you know the punishment for stealing. Lucullus could have chosen a much harsher punishment if he had wanted to. You were lucky. You need to get a grip, Vittius. The boys need you to get a grip.”

  “I don’t care,” Vittius snarled turning on Fergus and as he did Fergus, was startled to see real hatred in his friend’s eyes. “You humiliated me in front of everyone and I will not forget that. You and I are no longer friends. And if you beat me like that again I swear, Fergus, I will kill you. Watch yourself.�
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  And with that Vittius abruptly stomped away, his iron-studded boots scraping over the rocky path.

  Startled, Fergus slowly exhaled as he gazed at Vittius as the man walked away from him. He could have Vittius brought up for a court martial for what he had just said. Threatening a superior officer was a very serious offence but, as he stared at him, Fergus sighed and looked away. He couldn’t do that. Vittius was still a friend, despite what he had just said and he was not about to have a friend executed. Aledus was right, Fergus thought, as he slowly shook his head. Ever since the night assault on the fort at Tibiscum, there had been something not quite right in Vittius’s head.

  The arrow came zipping and whining down on the foraging party and thudded into the shoulder of one of the plodding legionaries. With a loud, painful cry the soldier went crashing backwards onto the ground, clutching his hands to his shoulder-wound. Instantly the company on the mountain track broke into a frenzy of activity, as with loud, startled and alarmed shouts, the men rushed into cover behind boulders, trees and the wagon, or raised their shields and crouched on the ground where they were. Fergus too, raised his shield and hastily peered in the direction from which the projectile had come. On the top of jagged rock formation overlooking the path, he suddenly caught sight of movement but before he could react, another arrow came whining down at the Roman party, striking the horse that was pulling the wagon. The animal shrieked, rose on its hind legs and then as the beast was struck by a second arrow, it collapsed sideways onto the ground, sending the wagon lurching dangerously to one side.