Roma Victrix (42 page)

‘And I,' Frontinus agreed. ‘We have learned a harsh lesson here, gentlemen. The barbarians are learning to think. This is not a trend to be encouraged.' He gestured to Iulianus to continue.

‘Once Fuscus was fully engaged,' Iulianus said, looking a little bit put out at Frontinus's interruption, ‘it transpired that the Dacains had allies who destroyed his rearguard and caught his army between hammer and anvil. Fuscus and the Fifth Alaudae were totally annihilated.'

‘Hmmm… not quite…' the old consul piped up. Trust Crispus to engage in pedantic details, Frontinus thought. ‘There was a
handful
of survivors,' Crispus continued, ‘the highest ranking of which was a tribune… wait a moment – I have his name somewhere…' As Crispus pored over one of his scrolls, Iulianus looked over towards Frontinus and then lifted his eyes to the ceiling to register his impatience – Frontinus shrugged sympathetically. ‘Ah… yes… here it is!' Crispus announced at last. ‘The tribune was one… Gaius Minervinus Valerian – yes… that's him.'

Valerian
. ‘By all the gods!' Frontinus muttered to himself.
Well,
well, well.
Now, this
was
interesting.
Bless you, Crispus, you fussy old
bastard, you!

‘It seems,' Crispus added, ‘that the said tribune, Valerian, received a dishonourable discharge from Vettonianus – with all his
virtus
and property forfeited – as punishment for being the highest ranking survivor.'

‘A tribune?' the emperor queried incredulously, ‘Is this what we've come to? We suffer far and away the worst military disaster in living memory and the only poor bastard we can find to take the rap is a fucking
tribune
!' Domitian was incandescent with rage as the
tablinium
fell silent. ‘Well…' he said at last, ‘One can only hope that, as his lifeblood seeps into his bathwater, Vettonianus finally develops a sense of responsibility. Now… thus far, we have established that this Decabalus and is no slouch and that Fuscus was perhaps not entirely to blame for this unmitigated disaster – well, I won't debate the point. We believe that Decabalus is reluctant to march south in numbers and seeks to draw us across the Danube and into the Dacian interior where he will have all the advantages.

And yet, Iulianus, we cannot give you anything like the five legions that proved so woefully inadequate for Fuscus. So, where does that leave us, and what is our strategy?'

‘Caesar… May I speak openly?' Iulianus asked.

‘Of course,' Domitian looked slightly affronted. ‘I've said that already, Iulianus – really, you shouldn't believe what you read. Have I asked anyone to prostrate themselves in my presence?' Everyone chuckled at this as the emperor referred to the particularly scur-rilous rumours that he was turning into some sort of Caligula. The literary types, Frontinus mused, loved to demonise anyone that wore the purple and Domitian had received the sharp end of many of their pens. ‘Everyone here needs to know the realities: I'm not interested in being told that all will be well only to find out next year that you – along with thousands more of my soldiers – are dead. Let's go into this with our eyes open, aware of the risks. I'm a fair commander, it's true. But all of you here are professionals – act like it.'

Iulianus nodded. ‘There's no reason for Decebalus to change his tactics. And there's no question of us launching a ‘surprise attack.'

He knows that we have to respond and therefore he will be using all the time he has to gather more allies – who will flock to him now that he has crushed a Roman army. We don't have the resources to throw another five legions at him – we can't risk a critical weakness of other frontiers – and, by now, he will have an even greater force ranged against us. In short, Caesar, we are outnumbered, outmanoeuvred and, given the terrain, we're liable to be outflanked.

There is only one recourse…'

‘
Summa extinctione
,' Frontinus expanded, both expecting and acknowledging the gasps and shifting of the gathered officers. ‘Total annihilation. In normal circumstances, conquest is all about profit.

But this is a punitive expedition and we cannot afford another defeat.

So…' He let his eyes sweep across the face of every officer in the
tablinium
as he continued, ‘…we invade and kill everything. Starting with the civilians. Men, women
and
children. I know that the profits we will lose in slaves will be huge, but we
have
to win this war. All other priorities are secondary.' War, he thought to himself, was a game for younger men. If this was Iulianus's strategy he couldn't argue with the logic. But the thought of it made Frontinus sick to his stomach, Even barbarians were human, capable of love, pain and at least a degree of higher thought. It was wrong. But at the same time it was right.

‘What about hiring mercenaries?' one of the tribunes asked. ‘Isn't that preferable to summarily executing an entire people in a quest for victory? How would history judge us?'

Iulianus rounded on him. ‘Who the hell are you?'

‘Quinctilius Spurius Nolus, sir.' Tribune Nolus seemed to wilt under the dark gaze of Iulianus. The boy reminded Frontinus of Valerian, who he had always liked –
Valerian, who must now be found
at all costs
.

‘I rather think,
tribune
,' Iulianus spat, ‘that you should keep your mouth shut unless asked to speak.'

Frontinus coughed. ‘Just so, Iulianus. But Caesar has put him on your staff and the question is valid – if very, very naïve. But the lad won't learn unless we teach him.'

Iulianus looked as though he was about argue, but Frontinus gave him the look – the look that said that, whilst he may be in charge of military operations, he, Sextus Julius Frontinus, was now governor and hence his superior.

‘Boy,' Iulianus began, ‘the majority of our mercenaries are made up of barbarians. Cavalry in the main, as I hope you know. Barbarians cannot be trusted – especially in this climate. They fight for pay, it's true, but this operation is of such high risk that we can only afford to count on Roman troops. If a smart German or Gaul decides that his lot is better thrown in with the enemy and betrays us at a critical point, we will lose the war. And then…' he trailed off.

‘And then we'll be beset on all fronts,' Frontinus directed his gaze at Nolus. ‘We've virtually lost five legions already. We lose…'

He looked at Domitian.

‘Three more,' the emperor supplied.

‘Then we'll have lost thirty five per cent of our standing army.

We need men that we can count on to stand and fight to the last.

And
summa extinctione
requires Roman soldiers – we can't rely on barbarians for that kind of work – they'd be killing their own. Now –
summa extinctione
is a dirty business. I hate it with every fibre of my being and if there was another way, I'd seize upon it. But Iulianus is right: the only way to draw Decabalus out is to kill everyone in our path. Essentially, we will methodically attempt to exterminate the Dacian race, town by town, village by village, person by person. That won't quite happen, of course – so posterity may look more kindly upon your legend, Nolus.' That got a laugh, and Nolus sat down, chagrined and red-faced. ‘But,' Frontinus continued, ‘if we follow this policy, eventually civilian casualties will get so high that Decebalus will be forced to meet us in battle – on ground of our choosing this time. And with three legions, we will destroy him.'

‘Are you satisfied with that explanation, tribune?' Iulianus glared at Nolus who nodded his head and did his best to disappear into the ground. Iulianus turned to the emperor. ‘I presume, Caesar, that this manpower will be taken from garrison forces and other non-frontline troops?'

‘General,' Domitian sighed. ‘Though they would have it that I am a god, I am not Mars or Minerva – sadly I cannot conjure legions of battle-hardened veterans for you. You are correct – we must siphon men from all over the empire and get them over to Dacia.'

‘Caesar, we must ensure they are battle-ready first.' Iulianus informed him. ‘Which of course will take time and that time will give Decebalus an even greater advantage. That responsibity will fall on the shoulders of these men gathered here. But still… with only three legions…' Both he and Frontinus had expected four.

‘Iulianus,' the emperor sounded suddenly weary. ‘Are you trying to tell me that we can't win here?'

‘No, Caesar,' Iulianus's response was instant. ‘We
can
win. But…'

He looked at Frontinus, who knew that the price of Iulianus accepting his authority was now being exacted; forcing him to be the one to tell hard truths to both to the emperor and the army at large. Shit rolling uphill, in this case.

‘But we may not,' Frontinus said. ‘This campaign will take skill and judgement – both Iulianus and I are experienced enough to know when to push and when to run. Caesar, the truth of the matter is this: we may have to abandon Moesia if we fail.'

That
drew a response from his audience. Loud protests followed: these tribunes would never allow such a thing to happen; they would die first – all good, chest-thumping stuff and excellent for morale.

But all the chest thumping in the world would not get them away from the fact that they could well lose Moesia.

Domitian delivered his verdict. ‘In that
unlikely
eventuality,' he pronounced, once the hubbub had died down, ‘we would simply continue
summa extinctione
as we retreat. and leave nothing of value to our foe. But, I don't anticipate failure. Fuscus, Vettonianus and the rest were driven by the need for tax monies to be returned to Rome – rightly so, it is the right of conquest. Iulianus, Frontinus and the men in this room are not constrained by such concerns. We will be merciless in our pursuit of victory.
Dacia delenda est.
' The emperor paraphrased the old Catonian cry against Carthage:
Dacia
must be destroyed
. He then picked up his wine cup and strode over to the map. ‘
Dacia delenda est!
' Domitian shouted, before hurling his wine at the Carpathian Mountains. ‘Bloody constraint. Slaves! Bring more wine for my soldiers!'

As soon as his cup was filled, Frontinus splashed it over the map.

‘
Dacia delenda est!
' he repeated, as did Iulianus and every officer present until the representative features of Moesia and Dacia became as a bloody, sodden pulp.

At the end of the day's training, all the women from the
ludus
had joined Lysandra in the bath house, save Varda whose ludicrous religion claimed that the sight of naked flesh was somehow corrupting.

‘Isn't your back sore?' asked Ankhsy of Lysandra as she eyed her recently acquired stripes. ‘Kleandrias really let you have it with the vine staff, the bastard.'

‘It is the Spartan way,' Lysandra replied. ‘It is much more exacting than the training you undergo. I am fortunate that Kleandrias is here to train me, as he is fortunate to have me to train.'

‘Cernunnos!' Olwydd invoked one of her barbarian gods. ‘You sound just like him. Does your Sparta produce nothing but swell-headed braggarts?'

‘Sparta produces warriors,' Lysandra replied. ‘Braggartism would imply that we are unable to back up our words, which clearly is not the case.'

Olwydd shook her head in disgust before plunging it under the water, robbing Lysandra of the chance to make a snide comment about the quality of conquered Britannic warriors compared to their Spartan counterparts.

‘He'll lay off you now, though,' Swanhilde commented. ‘There's a spectacle coming up – can't have you too badly beaten to fight.'

Lysandra tutted. ‘For gladiatrices, you two seem remarkably shocked over a little pain. It is not as though Kleandrias's repri-mands are savage – rather they are designed to ensure that everything I do is as perfect as it can be.'

Olwydd came up for air. ‘There's a spectacle coming up soon!' she announced, which made both Lysandra and Swanhilde chuckle.

Olwydd of course thought they were laughing at her. ‘You won't find it as funny if you have to face me!' she exclaimed.

‘We've been in the
ludus
two years, we've never once fought each other,' Swanhilde snorted. ‘Well, except in those mock fights – remember we had to do one when an orgy was going on around us the one time. Agh, the Romans have some funny habits don't they?'

‘I'm surprised you didn't join the orgy, Swanhilde,' Ankhsy's comment was dry.

‘I'd rather finger myself – all Roman men have small cocks, so what's the difference?'

‘There is no need for vulgarity,' Lysandra complained. ‘Really, Swanhilde.'

‘It's only the truth.'

‘That is as maybe,' Lysandra felt herself blushing at this talk, but pushed on. ‘All civilised people know that large penises are evidence of barbarity – that is why you never find sculptures of men with big… parts.'

‘In Britannia there's a carving on a hillside of a man with a massive one,' Olwydd added her
denarius
to the conversation. ‘It comes up to his chest almost.'

‘That is anatomically impossible…' Lysandra was about to deride her but stopped short. ‘Is it not?'

‘Fuck a barbarian and find out,' Ankhsy's expression was sagacious. ‘Once you've tried it, you'll never go back. Unless… these thrashings and punishments are part of Kleandrias's ploy to get you into bed. Is it some kind of Spartan mating ritual? You beat each other to a pulp before you rut?'

‘You people are disgusting,' Lysandra muttered, but her eyes danced with laughter. ‘It would take me too long to explain the superiority of Spartan culture to the likes of you – I will wager that you cannot read, so I cannot even direct you to a good book on the subject.'