‘Dionysius!’ he shouted, hoping that the auxiliary centurion was close enough to hear him over the noise. It was a man’s body, well dressed with fancy shoes, although the once-bright white tunic was smudged with ash and grime. He was not dead, for there was the faintest gasp when he pulled the man by the shoulders out of the shadows. Ferox stopped, worrying that he had done the poor fellow additional harm, so started to search for signs of injury. The rain was still falling, although the nearest roof gave a little shelter and there was more light from the fires here. The man was a stranger. Ferox tried lifting the head slightly and at once his hand was sticky with blood.
‘Sir?’ Dionysius appeared and then saw the body. ‘Holy Isis, it’s Piso.’
-
BRASUS SAW THE clouds to the north east glowing a deep red and was glad. The gold had done its work, and the one who had taken it proved true to his word for himself and his men – at least so far. Rain was already falling steadily, and it was bound to reach Piroboridava before very long. That would help the Romans put out the fire and that was a shame. The forts these people built were so densely packed that a strong wind and a dry day could easily sweep flames through if the fire got a grip. No matter – the Romans would be hurt and would lose many of their stores. That would make them weaker, and unless this Ferox turned out to be a fool after all he would realise that he had traitors in his midst.
‘Tell me about the bridge?’ Brasus asked his companion as they walked their horses through the night.
The other rider shrugged. ‘It is very big.’
‘Is it finished?’
Another shrug. ‘There is a piece missing, but maybe they only put it in place when they want to cross.’ The Sarmatian did not hide his people’s contempt for the waste of effort when a boat sufficed for the journey.
Brasus was not surprised by the warrior’s lack of interest. He would have to get word to the merchant to find out more or to look himself when he went back that way. It would be nice to know when the Romans’ great project would be complete, but it was not crucial for the king’s plan.
‘Tell me about this Roman?’ he asked instead.
‘The Bad Flavios? He came, he rode with us and feasted. None challenged him for his life, so he left us.’
The clipped manner of speaking of the Roxolani and their kin could be irritating at times, and he had to work to find out what he wanted to know. The centurion had ridden willingly to meet the hunting party, bringing just a single warrior. He had talked to the chiefs for hours and they had judged that he was the same man some of them had known almost twenty years ago. He had not asked for anything, which was surprising, nor had he raised the question of the clans’ alliances with Rome.
‘He is a warrior,’ the Sarmatian said. ‘A bad man as his name proclaims. His friend is also a man.’
‘Some of the Romanoi are worthy foes, but enemies still.’
‘They are not us,’ the Sarmatian conceded.
Brasus did not bother to point out that neither were the Dacians. The Roxolani cleaved to their brothers, their families, their kin and their clan, and their chiefs commanded because warriors chose to obey. They were brave, wild, greedy, fickle and great liars, but they could be useful. ‘Will your people answer when my king calls for them?’
‘Maybe.’
‘The Getae and Celtoi will follow the king, and the Bastarnae, as well as many peoples in distant lands. And once Rome has gone you may live as you will.’
The warrior sniffed. ‘To be a Roxolan is to live as each man wills. No one can give us that or take it away.’
‘So what will your chieftains do when the time comes? What will they and each warrior choose to do?’
‘As it pleases them, and as it pleases each man. We have no love for Rome.’
That was encouraging. ‘The Romans have few shepherds to guard many sheep, and the sheep are fat and rich. This will be a good war.’
‘Then it will please us to fight with your king and his warriors.’
‘Good. That will please my king, just as it warms my own heart.’ He raised his hand to his shoulder. ‘Ride as free as the wind, my friend. And soon let us ride side by side and hear the terror of our enemies.’
‘Until that time.’
Brasus rode alone through the night and was pleased that it took a long while for the glow off the clouds to fade altogether. He had met with many of the clan leaders in recent months, even visiting the same group just days before Ferox arrived, and there were friends of the king in many bands. He was encouraged and hopeful, if not fool enough to place absolute trust in any Sarmatian. At the very least there was little sign that they would join the Romans, so the Romans would worry that the Roxolani might ride with Decebalus or might just attack on their own while the empire was facing the bigger challenge of Dacia. Either way it should help, pinning garrisons in place and keeping the enemy spread out so that their defences were weak.
The time was drawing close, and a summons to return to Sarmizegethusa surely meant that they were about to strike. Timing was the key, and in the end this was all about time, for the king needed as long as possible to grow strong. In the past he had attacked to throw the enemy off balance, and this is what he would do once again. There would be more than one force, but this could be the main one for it threatened the enemy where he least expected danger. In the past, armies of Dacians and their allies had swept across the plains further south, especially in winter when the Danube froze and they could rush into Moesia, burning forts and plundering towns. The Romans knew this and had stationed more men in that area than ever before just in case. Soon an army would mass to strike there and they would see this and fix their eyes there. At this season the attackers would have to cross the river in boats, but there were plenty to be found and the winding river was long so that they would not be sure where the blow would fall. While this was happening, there would be attacks in the north, through the lands of the Iazyges, and far beyond them by the Suebi against Pannonia.
The Romans should not expect the sudden outbreak of war, but when the storm broke upon them they would see what they expected to see and shift their weight to meet it. Then, while their eyes were elsewhere, an army would cross the mountains and come down this valley. They would be strong in warriors and bring supplies and siege engines. The only fort in their path was Piroboridava, and once past that the way was clear right down to Dobreta and the Romans’ bridge. This army would storm the fort, cross the bridge and sack the fort on the other side if they could, but, if they could not, at the least tear up and burn the Romans’ monument to their arrogance.
None of this would win the war. Brasus knew that the Romans did not give in easily. In time their legions would mass and the army would be driven back – or better yet retreat before too many men had been lost. In the meantime the towers and castles of the kingdom would be repaired where they had been slighted, their defences would be made even stronger and their stores of food replenished, and they would be manned by warriors who had trained and grown confident. When the Roman invaders came, as they surely would, they would have to fight step by bloody step through the mountains and the months and years would pass while they did this. Any war not over by the depth of winter would fail as men froze or starved outside the walls of the Dacian strongholds. Decebalus could not win, but he could make it gruellingly hard for the Romans, and he could make it humiliating for their emperor. That was why a burned bridge mattered – not because it would hold the Romans on the far bank, for they had never needed a bridge in the past. Yet it showed them to be weak and hurt their pride and no ruler liked that. The king talked of men waiting to overthrow Trajan and perhaps he was right, for the drinkers of wine were as fickle and untrustworthy as the Sarmatians.