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

by William Kelso

  Suddenly Fergus caught sight of Lucullus’s red plumed helmet. The centurion was lying on his side on the ground, his hands pressed to a nasty wound to his leg. At his side lay a dead legionary, felled by a spear. Lucullus was grimacing in pain. Fergus’s eyes widened but he resisted the temptation to rush to his commanding officer’s aid. Before the battle, Lucullus had given him strict instructions that if something were to happen to him, that he, Fergus should continue the assault at all costs.

  “You,” Fergus roared grasping holding of a legionary. “Stay with the centurion. Keep him alive. The rest of you follow me. 2nd company with me!”

  And without waiting to see whether his men had heard him and were following, he raced towards the nearest ladder that led up onto the parapets. There were few Dacian defenders left on the narrow walkways that ran alongside the walls. As he scrambled up onto the Dacian ramparts, Fergus once more turned and yelled at the men from his company to follow him and in response he saw that a dozen or so men had heard him and were following him up the ladder. Down below in the fortress, the legionaries were slowly but steadily driving the defenders back towards the broad staircase that led up to the upper level.

  Rising to his feet, Fergus raced along the walkway, slipping nimbly over the odd corpse that lay scattered across the narrow parapet. On the mountain plateau beyond the fortress, the Roman artillery had ceased their barrage and as they caught sight of legionaries storming along the battlements, the Syrian archers in their siege tower too ceased their shooting. Snatching a look behind him, Fergus saw that he was being followed by a line of legionaries who were moving along the walls in single file, as they strained to keep up with him. And amongst them he caught sight of the company standard, it’s discs and crescent-moon symbols on the wooden pole, glinting in the fierce sunlight. Some of his men at least had heard him. Up ahead, the level Dacian battlements ended in a steep staircase, hewn from the rock and at the top of the stairs was a tunnel, cut into the natural rock. The tunnel must lead to the higher level of the fortress. Fergus bit his lip as he moved forwards. If he was wrong, he was going to look like a fool or worse a coward. He had spotted the tunnel cut into the rocks whilst the company had been waiting to assault the gates, and if his guess was correct the tunnel should lead up into the upper section of the fortress, bypassing the rock staircase where the bulk of the Dacian defenders were engaged in a desperate stand. If, Fergus thought, his chest heaving with exertion, if his guess was correct he would be able to lead his men up into the higher level of the fortress and attack the Dacian defenders from the rear.

  As Fergus stormed up the rock staircase an arrow struck one of the legionaries behind him and sent the man tumbling and groaning down into the fort below. And a split second later another whining arrow hammered harmlessly into the stone-walls, close to where Fergus had just been. Wildly, Fergus snatched a glance in the direction from which the arrows had come. On the opposite walls, across the width of the fort, a cluster of Dacian archers was kneeling and shooting at the Romans racing along the walkways. Their aim however was partially obscured by the billowing clouds of black smoke. But there was no time to pay them any more attention. As he raced up the stairs, a party of Dacians burst from the tunnel and came charging down the steps towards Fergus. The first man’s spear-thrust missed Fergus completely, as at the last moment Fergus twisted sideways, and then with a savage yell he pushed the man off the narrow walkway and down into the fortress below. The second man’s falx hammered into Fergus’s shield and as it did, Fergus’s sword buried itself in the man’s chest. With a groan the Dacian dropped his weapon and slowly toppled sideways into the fort. The third man, seeing the fate of his comrades hesitated and jabbed at Fergus with his spear but kept himself out of range of Fergus’s bloodied sword. Then just as he was about to jab again, a Roman spear came flying over Fergus’s shoulder, missing him by inches but striking the Dacian in his groin. Without hesitating, Fergus leapt forwards and knocked the weapon from the man’s hands. Then with a startled cry he slipped and landed on top of the dying Dacian. Fumbling desperately for a grip, Fergus frantically stabbed at his opponent and finally silenced him. Hastily scrambling to his feet, his armour and tunic stained with blood, Fergus turned around and stared with a mixture of horror and fury at the long file of legionaries waiting behind him. The Roman spear had missed him by inches and it had come from one of his own men. An insane thought came to him. Was one of them trying to murder him? Or was it just a well-aimed throw.

  There was no time however to dwell on the matter. Down below in the fortress the Dacian defenders were slowly retreating up the staircase. The defenders had managed to form a coherent line and the advantage of having the higher ground was slowing the Roman assault. Leaping over a Dacian corpse, Fergus headed up the remaining steps and then he was inside the tunnel. In the cool darkness, he slowed his pace and raised his shield in front of him. The noise of the fighting sounded distant and as he advanced up the sloping tunnel, he heard the panting breath and the rattle of the legionary’s armour as the men followed him into the tunnel. Then suddenly he caught sight of light at the end of the tunnel. Moving towards it Fergus suddenly emerged out onto the battlements of the upper level of the Dacian fortress. A dozen paces away, attached to a wooden pole, was the proud Dacian Draco banner fluttering in the breeze, which he’d seen from outside the fortress. Fergus hissed in delight. He had been right. The tunnel had led them around the Dacian flank and as he realised he’d been right, a fierce sense of elation surged through him. In the open space below him a few Dacians were rushing down to join their comrades on the broad staircase, but apart from them the upper level seemed deserted and unprotected. The walkways that lined the battlements in this part of the fort were less high than in the lower level, being only a yard from the ground. Catching sight of the Romans pouring out of the tunnel on top of the ramparts, a party of Dacians skidded to a halt and broke into loud alarmed shouting.

  “Bicilis,” Fergus roared as he leapt down from the ramparts and onto the rocky ground. “Where is Bicilis?”

  In response, the Dacian’s came charging towards him but there were too few of them and as the legionaries came surging past Fergus, the Dacians were swiftly cut to pieces until only a lone survivor remained. The man was holding a Roman shield and in his hand, he was clutching a captured gladius, short sword. With a tired, resigned expression, the man backed away, as Fergus and a group of legionaries closed in on him, trapping him against the battlements of the fortress.

  “Where is Bicilis?” Fergus roared again. “We want your commander. Where is he?”

  “Bicilis has fled and has taken his family with him,” the Dacian snarled suddenly speaking in near-perfect Latin. “He is not here. He’s a coward. He is hiding in the gold mines. You will never catch him down in those mines, it’s a labyrinth.”

  Surprised, Fergus raised his eyebrows as he stared at the man. There was something strange and odd about this Dacian.

  “How come you speak Latin so well?” Fergus cried out, as he slowly edged closer to the man. “Throw down your sword and tell us what you know and we will let you live,” he added hastily.

  In reply the man fixed Fergus with a resigned, defiant look. Then with a little, bitter smile he shook his head.

  “A man like me cannot surrender,” the warrior snapped. “I was a legionary once just like you and there will be no mercy for me. No, I shall see you on the other side in the presence of the gods, Roman.” And with that, the man jumped up onto the parapet and with a final, loud, defiant roar he leapt from the battlements and went plunging down towards the valley floor several hundred yards below.

  “Shit,” Fergus hissed, as he and the other legionaries raced up to the side of the battlements and peered over the side. He had not been expecting to meet Roman deserters inside the Dacian fortress but the man had been right. No captured Roman army deserter would be allowed to live.

  With a sigh, Fergus turned away and looked back into the fortress. From
the tunnel a continuous stream of legionaries were emerging and hastening down towards the staircase that connected the two levels of the Dacian fortress. The other companies had followed him along the ramparts and as he saw them emerge, Fergus felt a sudden pride. He had led them around the enemy flank. This was all his doing, his achievement, his idea. The fighting would not last long now. It was nearly over. The defenders, caught between the Romans in front and now in their rear, were going to be massacred. His chest heaving from exertion, Fergus suddenly caught sight of Aledus cutting down the Dacian Draco banner from where it had been flying from the battlements and as the colourful cloth fell into his hands, Aledus hastily stuffed the banner into the space between his armour and his tunic. Catching sight of Fergus staring at him, Aledus raised his fist in triumph.

  “Battle souvenir Sir,” Aledus cried out with a grin. “Their banner belongs to me now. It’s mine.”

  ***

  Tiredly, Fergus sat on the edge of the battlements of the upper level of the Dacian fortress and gazed out across the beautiful mountainous countryside. From his lofty position, he could see for miles. To the west, the sun was sinking below the horizon but it was still a warm evening. Close by, flying from the wooden post fixed to the hundred feet high fortress walls, the banner of the vexillation of the Twentieth Legion fluttered proudly in the wind. The tribune in command of the battle group, in honour of the units from the Legion who had played a decisive role in capturing the fortress, had granted them this honour. For a single day, the banner of the legionary detachment would fly from the battlements.

  Fergus’s face was stained with sweat and his body ached with fatigue. Silently he chewed on a piece of bread. The fortress had been taken and the fighting had come to an end and for that he was glad. The carnage around the gates and across the central stairs was truly horrific. In the end, very few of the defenders had tried to surrender and many had died by leaping off the fortress walls just like the Roman deserter had done. But now it was over and the fortress had been given over to the men whom had captured it and the legionaries had wasted no time in swarming over the place, looting and stealing everything of value. But there had been no sign or word about Bicilis’s fate. Hungrily, Fergus tore a piece from the loaf of bread and put it in his mouth. None of the small group of Dacian survivors had been able to tell their interrogators what had become of the Dacian commander. Bicilis it seemed had not been present when the final battle had begun. It seemed, Fergus thought with a frown, as he stared at the magnificent view before him, that the Roman deserter had been speaking the truth when the man had said that Bicilis had fled to the gold mines. He’d of course reported the news to his superiors but what happened next was not for him to decide. And then there was Lucullus. Fergus exhaled sharply, closed his eyes and tiredly ran his fingers across his face. The centurion’s leg wound was bad, but he would live provided the wound did not get infected the doctor had said. The last view he’d had of Lucullus was of him being carried away by two slaves on a stretcher. And that meant that for the time being the company was his to command, again.

  Ten yards away from him, Aledus, Vittius and a few other men from his company were sitting on the rock, gathered around a pile of captured Dacian arm bands, rings, daggers and other looted items. The men were gambling and as Fergus gazed in their direction, Aledus held up a cup, rattled the die inside, and threw them onto the ground. From a doorway in one of the few remaining undamaged Dacian buildings, Catinius suddenly appeared, rolling and pushing a small barrel before him with his feet. He was grinning as he headed towards his comrades.

  “Look what I found, boys,” Catinius called out gesturing at the barrel, “who fancies getting pissed tonight?”

  Fergus finished his bread, rose and headed across to the gamblers. As he sat down beside them, Fergus caught Aledus’s eye and some silent, unspoken message was communicated between them.

  “Wine, boys, who wants some?” Catinius cried out as he rolled his barrel up to the group and up-ended it. “Where are your cups then?”

  “Back with our stuff in the camp,” one of the men replied. “And I am in no mood to go and get mine so why don’t you just pour the wine into my helmet and I will drink it like that.”

  “Well done Catinius,” Fergus exclaimed as the men took their helmets off and Catinius began to pour the wine directly into them.

  “Shit, mine’s covered in blood,” Aledus muttered unhappily, as he accepted his helmet back.

  “It will add to the taste,” Catinius said with a smirk. Then he turned to Fergus with a respectful look. “Lucullus is wounded so I guess that makes you the senior officer in the company now. Should we be calling you Sir, Sir?”

  “Only if there are other officers around,” Fergus said with a good-natured smile. Taking a sip of wine from his helmet he swiftly turned to look around the group.

  “So, which arsehole flung that spear over my shoulder when we were charging down those parapets? If it had been a few inches lower, you would have killed me. Come on, I want to know who it was.”

  “That was me,” Aledus said, clearing his throat and raising his hand, “Shit Fergus I know how you run and I wasn’t going to miss and I didn’t, so what are you moaning about, Sir.”

  “Hell,” Fergus replied looking away and shaking his head. “Remind me to put you at the front of the next assault. I know how you run,” he added with a grin, as he made a mockery of Aledus’s accent.

  The good-natured banter continued and as the wine flowed and the group grew merry and their voices louder, the darkness closed in around them. Slowly the other men drifted away until only Fergus, Catinius, Aledus and Vittius remained. Then as the first of the stars became visible in the night sky Vittius, who had remained quiet for most of the drinking session, rose to his feet. But as he did Fergus quickly gestured at Aledus and the two of them rose and blocked Vittius’s path. Swiftly and smoothly Aledus reached down and pulled Vittius’s knife and sword from his belt and flung the weapons away and onto the rocky ground.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Aledus muttered as he squared up to Vittius.

  “Sit down, Vittius,” Fergus said in a sharp voice. “It is time that we had a chat with you.”

  For a moment Vittius said nothing as he stared at Aledus. Then heavily he sat back down on the ground and as he did, Catinius reached for his helmet and poured him another generous helping of wine.

  “I told Aledus and Catinius about what you said to me the other day,” Fergus said quietly and soberly, as he crouched in front of Vittius, “And all three of us are agreed that you are not yourself these days. We are your mates, Vittius. We are having this conversation because we are concerned about you.”

  “Really?” Vittius snapped with a sarcastic voice. Angrily he tried to rise to his feet but Catinius pushed him gently back to the ground.

  “You are not going anywhere until you tell us what is going on with you?” Aledus snapped. “Shit Vittius, if a company loses confidence in the man standing beside him then that company is doomed. You know this.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Fergus asked in a gentler voice.

  On the ground Vittius raised his helmet and poured all the contents down his throat in one go and as he lowered his helmet, Catinius filled it up again with wine. Suddenly Fergus noticed that Vittius’s hand was trembling.

  Once more Vittius raised his helmet to his lips and poured the contents down his throat, sloshing wine onto his boots. Then he dropped the helmet onto the ground, bowed his head and clasped it in his hands.

  “I don’t want to die,” Vittius whispered, with shaking hands. “I can’t sleep. Ever since that night attack in Tibiscum I have had these dreams of my own death. They come every night. They haunt me. They terrorize me.”

  Suddenly Vittius let go of his head and stared up at Fergus and as he did, Fergus could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and that he was crying.

  “I am so sorry Fergus,” Vittius gasped as the tears rolled down his
cheeks. “I should never have stolen that bread and I should not have spoken to you like that. I am sorry Fergus, forgive me. I am just frightened, I don’t want to die.”

  And as Vittius lowered his head, his body shook and he sobbed uncontrollably. Fergus looked up at Aledus and Catinius and as he did, both of his comrades looked down at their boots in sombre understanding. So, that was what had been behind it all, Fergus thought. Vittius was just frightened, he was scared. With a weary sigh, Fergus laid his hand on Vittius’s shoulder and leaned forwards so that his head was resting against that of his comrade. They had all experienced the same fear and terror, it just seemed that some men were better at coping with it than others.