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

by William Kelso

  “There they are,” a Roman voice roared. “They are up there on the top of those rocks.”

  “Get them,” Lucullus screamed from where he was crouching beside the wagon.

  And in response a party of eight legionaries, covering themselves with their shields, dashed across the path towards the cliffs and began to clamber up. On top of the rocks Fergus again saw a flurry of movement. On the track below another arrow slammed into a legionary’s shield. Then two figures hastily rose from their sniper’s position, their bows clearly visible and vanished from view. Fergus did not move as he searched the trees and boulders but there was no sign of any more trouble. In the road, two of the legionaries dashed across towards their wounded comrade and hastily dragged the groaning man into cover behind the cart. A few minutes later the eight legionaries returned. The decanus, squad leader was shaking his head as he hastened towards Lucullus.

  “We lost them Sir, they fled into the woods,” the NCO called out.

  “All right,” Lucullus growled, rising stiffly to his feet and turning to stare at the dead horse. “Get that beast out of the way and load that wounded man onto the wagon. We will pull it along ourselves. Now let’s get moving. I don’t want to be caught out here when it gets dark. Those arseholes may be back.”

  Fergus rose and as the legionaries hastened to fulfil Lucullus’s orders, he turned to gaze up at the cliffs with a sour, annoyed expression. Maybe Rufus was right he thought. Maybe Bicilis did indeed lack the men to stop them, for the Dacian tactics seemed to have become more and more desperate. Since the ambush in the forest there had been no serious Dacian attempt to halt the battle group’s advance towards the Rosia Montana gold and silver mines. Instead the Roman columns had found themselves harassed and under almost daily attack from small groups of warriors, who, hidden amongst the trees or crouching on top of cliffs and rocks, had launched their hit and run attacks, before swiftly melting away into the terrain. In every forest, gorge, mountain track and defile that the battle group had advanced through, there had been a small party of Dacian’s who had attacked with arrows and spears or had sent big boulders and rocks tumbling down on the advancing Romans. But it was all desperate stuff, Fergus thought with contempt. The steady trickle of Roman casualties might not be doing anything to improve Roman morale but the hit and run attacks would not win the war. They were a sign of weakness.

  It was an hour later when they came across the village. Lucullus, who was leading the foraging party, suddenly raised his hand and the company came to an abrupt halt. Along the track the men hastily crouched behind their shields, their eyes searching the forest for trouble but none came. At the rear of the party, Fergus peered into the trees up ahead. Smoke was billowing up into the sky from a Dacian hut in the woods that was on fire and he could smell the acrid, unpleasant smoke, but all was quiet. Silently Lucullus pumped his fist into the air and began to move forwards along the path and into the village. As Fergus drew closer he caught sight of a dead dog lying beside the track. The settlement was small, no more than a cluster of timber and thatch huts in a forest clearing. Then, as the Romans cautiously and silently advanced into the settlement, Fergus saw the bodies. The women, children, babies and old folk lay in the doorways to their homes, slumped against trees and crumpled on the ground. They were all dead and as Fergus stared at the massacre in mounting horror, he noticed that many of the civilians had been mutilated. A few of the women, their clothing torn and bloodied looked like they had been raped before being murdered. In the centre of the village a wooden stake had been thrust into the ground and on top of it was a man’s gory head. Fergus crouched on the ground beside the stake and silently turned to look around him in disgust. Someone had massacred the villagers. The village was completely deserted and everything of value seemed to have been stripped away and taken, leaving just the empty, abandoned homes and the dead.

  From the corner of his eye Fergus noticed Lucullus coming towards him. The centurion’s face looked grave.

  “This is not war,” Lucullus hissed angrily. “This is a war crime. Look at these people, women, children, babies, hell Fergus, in their own homes. This is a disgrace.”

  Fergus nodded in agreement, as around him the legionaries silently began to spread out, cautiously examining the dead and poking around in the deserted huts.

  “The fourth company were assigned to forage in this area,” Lucullus growled. “This must be their work.”

  “That’s Fronto’s company,” Fergus snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “We should report this to Rufus, Sir. Someone must be punished for this.”

  “Yes,” Lucullus nodded, “That’s exactly what I want you to do when we get to camp. Find Rufus and report what you have seen here.”

  ***

  The Roman battle group’s camp had been constructed in a broad, lush and high mountain plateau that was surrounded on three sides by forest, that sloped away down into a valley. Nearby a mountain stream gurgled and twisted its way down into the valley below. As the foraging party emerged from the woods and slowly began to make their way past the numerous, fresh tree-stumps towards the gates of the camp, Fergus gazed up at the massive, lofty, craggy mountain peak that rose above the camp, a half a mile away. The Dacian fortress of Rosia Montana looked magnificent and impregnable, perched high on the rocky summit of the mountain. Its massive stone walls had been expertly built into the natural rock and the sheer, vertical flanks of the mountain, rising some hundred feet into the air, made them impossible to approach. From the battlements, a proud Dacian Draco banner was fluttering in the breeze, the giant opened-jaws of the snake’s head glaring in the direction of the Roman fortifications. The only access into the fortress was by way of a narrow, stony track, barely wide enough to allow a single wagon to pass. And it was to this place, the last Dacian stronghold in the district, that Bicilis and his few remaining, loyal men had retreated, to make their final stand.

  As Fergus approached the V shaped ditch and the wooden gates of the Roman fort, he glanced at the heads of the four Dacian prisoners who had not managed to get away in time during the ambush in the forest. The bloody, shrivelled heads had been stuck on poles and placed outside the camp gates as a warning to anyone else who might be thinking about similar acts of treachery. Along the earthen ramparts and the wooden palisade that ran along the top, the Roman sentries were keeping a keen eye on the forests. Fergus however, seemed in no mood to acknowledge the welcoming shouts of the sentries as they opened the gates. The 4th company had lost half their men in the ambush, including their centurion and optio and Rufus had placed the remaining survivors under Fronto’s temporary command, as he was the company Tesserarius, third in command and most senior surviving officer. He was no stranger to death and war but the massacre of the women and children in the village had shocked Fergus and now he was angry.

  ***

  Stiffly Fronto saluted as he came striding into Rufus’s tent and halted before the senior officer of the cohort. Standing beside Rufus, Fergus, his helmet tucked under his arm, glared at Fronto with barely concealed fury. Kneeling on the ground in Rufus’s richly decorated tent, a slave was silently mending a tunic with a bone needle and a piece of thread. Catching sight of Fergus, Fronto’s face darkened with suspicion. Then swiftly he fixed his eyes on Rufus.

  “You called for me, Sir?” Fronto barked.

  “That’s right,” Rufus said sternly, looking Fronto straight in the eye. “This morning I gave you orders to take your company out on a foraging expedition. Did you go to the village which was assigned to you?”

  For a moment Fronto hesitated.

  “I did Sir,” he said at last. “We took what was needed and we returned at once to camp. The quartermasters will vouch for the supplies which we brought back. What is this about Sir?”

  “There has been an allegation made against you, Fronto,” Rufus snapped. “An allegation that after you took the supplies, you also raped and massacred the entire village. Women, children even babies. Is this
true?”

  Again, Fronto hesitated and his eyes briefly glanced at Fergus.

  “When we arrived in the village,” Fronto said, clearing his throat, “there was resistance. The villagers would not let us take their food. They tried to fight us, so yes there were some casualties, Sir.”

  “Some casualties,” Fergus hissed taking a step towards Fronto. “We found that the entire village had been massacred and they did not seem to be armed. Women were raped and children had their throats cut open. Are you saying that your men could not cope with a few unruly, unarmed women and children? This is war crime and you as the senior commanding officer are responsible.”

  “What do you care about these Dacians?” Fronto snarled, rounding on Fergus. “Those fuckers wiped out half my company and killed some of my friends. They deserve nothing from us.”

  “Why do I care?” Fergus retorted. “I care because your actions have brought disgrace, shame and disrepute to our banners and our honour. We are soldiers. We are not murderers. Have you no shame? The gods will not look kindly on us for such cowardly action. There will be consequences.”

  “I do not fear the gods,” Fronto snarled contemptuously.

  “All right, that will be all Fronto,” Rufus growled unhappily. “Dismissed.”

  As Fronto saluted he gave Fergus a quick, murderous look and then turned and marched out of the tent.

  Rufus sighed, stepped over to a table on which stood a bowl of water and carefully began to wash his hands.

  “I will report this matter up the chain of command when I get the chance, Fergus,” Rufus said, looking down at the water, “But don’t expect anything to come of it. The senior commanders are too busy fighting a war. They will not spend much time or thought on this. It won’t be a priority. You were right to report this to me but don’t expect that anything will happen.”

  As he emerged from Rufus’s tent, Fergus could see that it was getting late. Wearily and deflated he trudged past the rows and rows of white army tents until he came to the spot where the 2nd company had been billeted. Some of the legionaries had already got their cooking fires going and were preparing their evening meal. There was nothing more he could do Fergus thought, but at least he had raised the incident with his senior officers. Rufus was right, the army would report the incident but nothing would come of it for no one would be really interested. But I am not going to be like Fronto Fergus thought resolutely, a man without honour, who is happy to murder women and children. Corbulo, his grandfather would have turned his back on him if he ever allowed himself to get caught up in something like that. Of that Fergus was sure.

  Reporting the outcome of the meeting with Rufus to Lucullus, Fergus finally retreated to the tent he shared with the standard bearer and the company Tesserarius. Stepping inside he reached down to pick up his army blanket and then with a startled cry he staggered backwards in fright. Lying coiled on the ground where he normally slept, was a venomous looking snake.

  Stumbling out of the tent Fergus stared at the snake in horror. Then slowly turning his head, Fergus caught sight of Vittius. His friend was standing facing the setting sun, praying to Mithras but as he did he paused and turned to glare at Fergus.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Battle for Rosia Montana

  The Dacian fortress of Rosia Montana, perching high on its impregnable rocky-summit, loomed over the lines of Roman siege fortifications that sealed it off from the outside world. From the battlements of the fort, the proud Dacian Draco banner still fluttered defiantly in the wind. It was dawn and along the Roman earthen ramparts with their sharpened wooden stakes pointing outwards, Fergus and hundreds of silent legionaries stood waiting, their shields resting at their feet as they gazed at the gates leading into the Dacian redoubt. After nearly two weeks of preparing Fergus thought, the day in which the siege would be decided had finally arrived.

  The lofty fortress, with its sheer hundred-foot-high cliffs and walls and single access route, was protected by a twenty foot deep natural gorge that ran along most of its front. The jagged crack in the earth cut straight across the access track that led to the gates of the fortress, cutting off most of the redoubt with a ten-foot wide, gaping hole and making it impossible to approach. At the bottom of the gorge a small stream cascaded down the crack, ending in a spectacular waterfall that crashed down the side of the mountain. Towards the back of the fortress the land fell away steeply to a forested valley, several hundred yards below. As he stared at the gates, Fergus could see that there had once been a bridge spanning the chasm but that the Dacian’s seemed to have removed it. Lifting his gaze upwards he could see that the fortress was divided into two levels, an upper level and a lower level connected by a wide staircase, hewn from the rock. From his vantage point too he could clearly see the Dacian archers, standing on their battlements staring back at him.

  The two Roman negotiators, one of whom was holding up a flag of truce, were still standing at the edge of the gorge, speaking to a party of Dacian’s who had ventured out from behind their gates and were standing on the other side of the gorge. They were however too far away for Fergus to hear what they were saying. Uncomfortably Fergus shifted his weight and touched the pommel of his grandfather’s sword as he waited to hear whether the fortress would surrender or not. After the ambush in the forest he had searched for the weapon amongst the bloody carnage and chaos and had finally found Corbulo’s old sword underneath a corpse. The sword had once belonged to his grandfather and afterwards to Marcus, his father and now it was his turn to carry it and he would be damned if he was going to lose it.

  Fergus blinked. The negotiators were coming back towards the Roman fortifications and on their side of the gorge, the Dacians were hurrying back into their fortress. The negotiations seemed to have come to an end. As the two negotiators hastened through a gap in the Roman siege works, Fergus saw that the men were shaking their heads.

  “They refuse to surrender, no surrender,” one of the men called out. “They say that they would prefer to fight to the death.”

  “Fergus, with me,” Lucullus commanded as the centurion beckoned for Fergus to follow him.

  Quickly the two of them left the siege fortifications and headed back towards the Roman camp on the plateau.

  “The tribune is holding a council of war and I want you to be there,” Lucullus said as he caught sight of Fergus’s questioning look.

  ***

  Inside the tribune’s large, plush-looking tent a table had been placed in the centre and on it sat a finely-crafted wooden and stone miniature of the Dacian fortress, complete with the positions of the Roman siege lines. Fergus and the twenty or so other senior officers were standing around the table staring at the model of the fort, as the chief engineering officer of the battle group explained his plan.

  “The fortress is built on solid rock,” the officer said as he tapped the side of the miniature fortress, “We cannot approach from the rear or the flanks; the valley slopes are too rough and steep. That leaves this section here, directly facing our lines. Now the Dacians have increased the height of their defences by building their walls into the rock. We do not possess anything that will be able to attack those walls, so we must concentrate our efforts on their weakest spot, which are the gates and the walls of the lower level. These are man-made and present the easiest way in which to break into the fortress.”

  “How will we cross the gorge?” a centurion asked pointing at the crack in the ground that cut across the access track. “How can we attack the gates and walls if we can’t even reach them?”

  “My engineers have built all kinds of war machines for this purpose,” the engineering officer replied confidently. “As the main assault starts, our men will advance up the access track carrying the screens which we have built for this purpose. Our artillery and siege-tower will provide cover. The screens should protect the assault companies from enemy missiles. Once they reach the gorge we will fill in the gap with bundles of wood and stones and place a bridge across the d
ivide. With the assault bridge in place, we shall then wheel our battering ram up to the gates and bring them down. After that we storm and take the fortress.”

  For a moment, the gathered officers around the table said nothing.

  “You are going to need a lot of wood to fill in that gorge,” one of the centurion’s exclaimed. “How long will this take?”

  “Hard to say. It’s twenty feet deep and ten feet wide,” the engineer shrugged, “we have already prepared the bundles of logs, the hardest part will be bringing them and the bridge up, under those enemy missiles. But it can be done.”

  “It will be done,” the young aristocrat in command of the battle group snapped, as he leaned forwards against the table and stared at the miniature fort. “The Dacians have refused to surrender and we all know what that means. Our laws are clear. From the moment that the head of our battering ram first touches their gates, no one shall be allowed to surrender. All men and boys aged over fourteen will be killed and any women and children will be sold into slavery. That is the right of war, gentlemen. But I want Bicilis,” the tribune growled, turning to look at his officers, “Tell your men that whoever brings Bicilis to me, dead or alive, will be rewarded with a bonus of five hundred denarii.”

  ***

  The battery of onagers, heavy catapults, kicked backwards with a vicious cracking movement and with a whirring noise, the first of the Roman incendiary missiles went arching through the sky towards the Dacian fortress. Kneeling on one knee, his shield resting against his body, Fergus watched the missiles as they vanished into the Dacian fortress with an explosive crash. The impacts sent groups of birds rising from their perches in the nearby forests. Along the length of the Roman siege fortifications, the silent legionaries were down on one knee as they waited and watched the aerial bombardment as it began to intensify. Suddenly from close by, with a creaking groan and a few shouts, the tall wooden Roman siege tower, thirty feet high with five storeys, began to slowly move forwards through a gap in the siege works. The huge wheeled, swaying tower was being pulled forwards by a team of oxen whilst at the rear, men strained to push it along the specially designed wooden trackway. Fergus looked up at the siege tower in awe, as it loomed over him and slowly began to make its way towards the gorge and the Dacian gates. The men had called the tower “the beast” and the platforms of the tower were bristling with Syrian archers and scorpio’s, giant tripod-mounted cross bows. And as the siege tower advanced it was accompanied by detachments of legionaries cautiously moving forwards in compact testudo formations, their shields overlapping to form a magnificent, close protective cover for the men inside the scrums.