Roma Victrix (8 page)

‘What must I do?'

Telemachus chuckled. ‘Oh, Lysandra. Lysandra, beloved of Athene, I envy you. I am jealous because in all my years in her service, not once have I felt the touch of the goddess. Yet you…you she loves. What must you do? You ask this, yet on your desk in the
Deiopolis
is a letter from the Emperor of Rome requesting…
requesting
that you fight his champion in the Flavian Amphitheatre – the greatest arena on the face of the earth. Do you not think, Lysandra, that Athene has given you a purpose once again?'

‘I cannot fight again,' she argued. ‘I am too old, too long out of the arena. I would be easy prey for this Aesalon Nocturna of theirs.'

‘Too old? Lysandra, you are twenty-six. You're
not
too old – you are in your prime. At the moment, yes, you are not as…
honed
…as you once were. But that is easily rectified. Think, girl!' He rose to his feet, knowing that his performance would impress her. ‘Your Mission is not yet complete. Here in the provinces you proved, beyond all doubt, that you were matchless on the sands of the arena.

But in Rome? What a feat it would be to go the capital of the Empire and defeat a Roman champion in the Temple of Gladiators!

Who then could argue against Spartan superiority? How better could you serve Athene? Your Mission was to teach others of her word.

Where better to accomplish that than in the centre of the world.

Rome! You will shout loud in their arena, and they will hear Athene's name. That, Lysandra of Sparta, is your answer. You
must
go to Rome.' He had, he realised, got a little bit carried away with the performance, but his audience was full of rapt attention. Awe, relief and hope were written all over her face, and Telemachus sat down, letting the branding of his words sizzle into her mind.

‘And you say that the goddess does not speak to you?' Lysandra whispered. ‘I think that perhaps she speaks
through
you, Telemachus.'

‘Perhaps,' he said modestly. ‘You will go then?'

‘I will. I must get away from Asia Minor. The east has always drawn the Hellenic warrior, and the east has more often than not been our undoing. From Achilles to Alexander – we win here and then die here.
I
will not die here.'

‘You will not die there either.'

They left the marching camp at dawn.

The ever-cautious Fuscus had left a garrison to defend the position should it be attacked. It was standard procedure to do so in supposedly hostile territory, and Valerian privately commended the old general on his thoroughness. Despite the fact they had had no contact with enemy forces, the old boy was playing it safe. Indeed, Valerian reckoned that this push through the Dacian forests to trap Diurpaneus in his mountain stronghold was an overtly aggressive move for the general. Then again, Domitian was not an emperor renowned for his patience and the political reality for Fuscus was clear: deal with this Diurpaneus or be replaced.

To be fair to Domitian, he had provided the general with the fighting machine to do the job: five legions was a massive show of force and a show of faith in his long-standing supporter Fuscus.

Valerian suspected that the politicians in Rome probably expected the barbarians to just capitulate and beg forgiveness when they realised the severity of Rome's intended chastisement.

The truth of the matter was that the Dacians – whilst barbarians – were far from being Germans. The night before, Fuscus had referred to Dacia as a
proto
civilisation. Certainly, in this part of the country they had proper towns and villages, trading, sophistication and all the elements of rudimentary society. Further north that was not the case, of course – Valerian had heard tell of feral tribes, human sacrifice, obscene torture and all sorts of savagery. But on campaign there were always those sorts of tales about the enemy.

He glanced about, realising that the rain had stopped just as the vanguard breached the wall of trees that separated the Roman army from the Dacian heartland. Scouts had reported the way ahead was clear. The military had a healthy respect for enemy woodland, ever since the Teutoburg disaster of eighty years before – no commander in his right mind was going to send his men blindly into a wooded heathen maze without the absolute surety that no trap was about to be sprung on the legions when they were at their most vulnerable.

Now that the rain had ceased, an almost unnatural quiet descended upon the army as it flowed through the woods. To a bird flying above them, Valerian reckoned that it must look like a scarlet and iron river was seeping into the tree line, the irresistible tide of Rome drowning the wild Dacian landscape as it progressed inland. As though in response to this invasion, a mist began rise about the legs of the marching soldiers as grey and cold as the waters of the Styx.

Valerian could feel the trepidation in the vanguard as they marched on. As a matter of breeding, all rankers were superstitious oafs – they were either farmyard yokels or city scum, the vast majority of them illiterate, unimaginative and stupid. Not that these were neces-sarily faults in the average legionary; such men could be counted on to obey orders without question, fear no enemy and not realise when they were beaten, thus often turning defeat into victory.

But here, far from home in the eerie embrace of the eastern European wilds, even the most prosaically-minded soldier could begin to see ghouls in the shadows. Valerian had to admit to himself that the forest had an unnatural feel to it; a strange malevolence seemed to permeate the mists as though the land itself was angered by the presence of the invaders from the west. He shook his shoulders, chiding himself for falling prey to fanciful imaginings.

The legions pressed on, making good progress despite the mists that continued to rise. The trees were thick but not impassable and good marching order was maintained. The men, however, still looked anxious.

‘My old mum told me about places like this,' Valerian heard a ten-year veteran confide to his mate. ‘These barbarian forests are haunted by the poor sods they kill in their human sacrifices.'

Valerian leaned down in the saddle. ‘Your old mum also told her husband that you were his issue, Decimus, despite her servicing half the depot when he was on campaign.' Decimus's mate cracked up laughing, as did most of the men within earshot. ‘Haunted forests, indeed. What a load of bollocks.'

‘Yes sir, thank you sir,' Decimus looked chagrined and baleful all at once. ‘Bollocks, sir,' he added, his intonation making it the accusative: ‘
Bollocks to you, sir
.' It was as much a retort his rank would allow, and Valerian was pleased to let it pass. The exchange had broken the mood, which was the main thing.

‘Come on now, lads!' Valerian raised his voice. ‘Not much further and we'll be out in open country.'

It was true. A few miles had passed underfoot after the exchange and the men of the vanguard could see the trees thinning out ahead.

Valerian failed to notice at first, but the silence had been replaced by something else. A low, distant roaring that seemed to come from the very earth itself. ‘What's that noise?' he asked aloud. The expressions on the faces of the soldiers told him that they were thinking the same as him. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and nudged his mount into a canter.

He had gone no further than a couple of hundred yards when his fears were confirmed. The sound had become the unmistakeable din of men shouting. Thousands of them. The shock hit Valerian like a hammer blow as he realised that, beyond the tree line, the Dacians were waiting for them. Fear leapt to his throat, but he had to go on. No scouts could be seen, so he, and he alone, was responsible for reporting the enemy's dispostion.

He urged the horse on, and soon he could see them: tens of thousands of infantry and horsemen in full battle array.

Waiting for them.

Valerian cursed, dragged his horse's head about and galloped back to his men. ‘The Dacians,' he gasped. ‘Get a message to the general – the Dacians are coming.'

He gave the order to halt the line, and for a few bizarre minutes all was still. Then, as word began to spread, the confused expressions of the men became those of shock and fear. All at once,
buccinas
began to blare, commands shouted out and then ingrained discipline of the legions took over. Centurions, long experienced and well-used to the shock of ambuscade led the men to battle order.

Valerian checked to see all was in order with his own command before cantering away from the front ranks and seeking Fuscus's standard. He was not alone, officers from all over the army were now bounding in for orders.

Valerian, as the first man to contact the enemy, forced his way to the front and blurted out the size and disposition of the force in front of them. To his credit, Cornelius Fuscus was not unhinged by the news. Indeed, he seemed to welcome it. ‘Gentlemen,' he said.

‘The enemy has made his error and it is for us to capitalise upon it.

Facing us in open battle is at best overconfidence and at worst desperation. I neither know nor care which, only that Diurpaneus has saved us a long and drawn-out campaign of attrition. Instead, he has taken the honourable path of meeting us, face to face, man to man. I could almost admire him if it wasn't my job to kill him!'

Valerian and the others laughed politely. ‘Be that as it may,'

Fuscus went on, ‘whilst the Dacian has done us this courtesy, I suspect that the longer we delay, the harder things will be. I have little time for Caesarian tactics, nor shall we need them in this instance. We must take the fight to the enemy, break the centre and allow our horsemen to envelop him. Keep your eyes and ears open for signals – I will convey more once I have assessed the situation first hand. To your posts, gentlemen.' The general turned to him.

‘Valerian.'

‘Sir!'

‘On return to your unit, it will be your honour to signal the advance. Take it to them, son.'

Valerian swallowed. ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir!' He hoped his expression was resolute as he turned his mount away, but the fear was crawling through him like maggots through a rotting core.

He was not alone in this, he knew. No man, no matter how brave or experienced, was immune from the sudden jolt of terror when ordered into battle.

Valerian rode back to his section, noting that his men were in a high state of readiness. Centurions and
optios
prowled the lines, dressing them with a curse here and crack of the vine staff there; it brought to mind a recent book that Valerian had read which cited that the Roman military's drills were like bloodless battles, its battles bloody drills. This was where the Roman soldier found his courage: not in bluster or drink like a barbarian but in preparedness and routine. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves, trying to appear aloof. It was what the men expected.

Suddenly, Valerian had to fight down the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all: here he was trying to look unconcerned whilst just beyond the tree line was horde of screaming barbarians who wanted desperately to kill him in the most grisly way possible.

‘You seem happy, Sir. Looking forward to the fight?' said Decimus.

‘Don't worry,' Valerian grinned at the ranker. ‘I'll be right behind you.'

‘The mark of a true officer, sir.'

‘Thank you, Decimus.' He looked left and right and then behind.

The ranks of the legions were drawn up as best they could in the wooded terrain. That would change when they broke the tree line and got out on the flat ground beyond. Valerian sucked in air, expanding his chest. ‘Fifth Alaudae will advance by the right!' his voice rolled through the forest. ‘Forward… march!' As soon as he had given the command, signalmen and trumpeters relayed it and, with a shudder, the legions began to roll forward, an implacable wall of iron, bronze and muscle that could not be resisted.

Valerian could feel the tension about him as they moved forward, each man picturing what awaited him beyond the trees. As the first line of men emerged, they could see the Dacians some quarter of a mile away, brandishing their weapons, their war horns answering the brazen calls of Roman
buccinas.
With the rising fog clinging to them, the Dacian warriors took on the appearance of wraiths conjured from Hades to do battle with the soldiers of Rome. Valerian knew that his imagination was running away with him, but he could not seem to restrain it. It was always the same before battle – his mind played tricks, magnifying the fear in his guts. Outwardly he knew he was the picture of the arrogant Roman commander but it was only the fact that the fear of cracking in front of his men was greater than his fear of the Dacians that kept him from running.

Valerian's eyes narrowed as he saw the front line of the Dacians shift and take a step backwards. He could see their full array clearly and, though it was a formidable force, they were still outnumbered by the legions. This realisation bolstered his courage as it did the men in the ranks. They marched a little straighter and the pace increased slightly. The Dacians responded by moving back even more.

It could not be called a retreat, more an orderly withdrawal.

Valerian marvelled at the discipline the Dacian troops showed. It was unlike anything he had seen from a barbarian horde before: horns and trumpets blared and the men responded, shuffling back in step. Evidently Diurpaneus had underestimated – or had been given bogus information – about the size of the force he faced. The Dacian commander was pulling his men back, probably to a narrower front where the Roman advantage could be negated. If not a student of Alexander, the Dacian king was certainly no tactical novice.

But withdrawal was still dangerous; the morale of fighting men was all important and a retreating army could bleed confidence like a sacrificial bull. If Valerian had been in command he would have ordered the attack at once and seized the initiative. Even as the thought came to mind, he guessed what Fuscus's feelings on the matter would be. Too risky to attack; too obvious. What if Diurpaneus was planning a ruse – would they rush blindly into it? Better to steady the advance and rely on the skill, discipline and natural aggression of the Roman fighting man once the battle lines had joined.