“My own spear!” With a look of baffled disbelief, the cavalryman slid from the saddle and fell to the ground, the shaft shattering beneath him.
Anakreon bellowed a howl of rage and trotted his horse the dozen or so steps to the prone warrior, slashing down with his sword repeatedly and carefully, so as not to deliver a single killing blow, but to remove appendages and leave painful slices.
As the Dacian lay on the floor, thrashing the stumps of his limbs and shrieking, the hulking Greek spat on him and rode back to his commander.
“Bastards!”
Maximus gave him a grim nod.
“Come on. Let’s find out what they’re hiding.”
The pair turned, sparing a last glance for the two fallen companions who would lie unburied and pecked at by pests. It was no way for a brave man to make the final journey. With deep breaths, they rode off after the three men.
The rear of the village was an array of corn fields and the tracks of the fugitives, leaving broken ears of corn snapped and trampled, was clear enough that a child could follow them. With the advantage of saddle height, the pair began to ride through the corn, following the trail.
Perhaps half way across the field, Maximus reach across and tapped his companion and the pair hauled on their reins.
“What’s wrong here?”
“I dunno, sir? Path’s clear enough to me.”
“Precisely.” Maximus frowned. “There were a dozen places they could have run where they would make it to woodland, but they choose to run across the only field that would openly display their tracks?”
“Perhaps they panicked?”
Maximus shook his head. “I don’t think so. These men had a purpose. Come on.”
Carefully now, their horses plodding on with interminable slowness, the two continued across the field. Suddenly, with a start, Maximus held his hand up.
“There. Can you see?”
Anakreon frowned and squinted into the hazy sunlight, chaff floating in the air and the smell of honey and wheat in his nose.
“No. What?”
Maximus pointed forward and then off to his left. The huge Greek raised his eyebrows.
“Bugger me. That was subtle.”
The heavy tracks continued forward toward the woodland, but, barely visible, a second trail veered off to the left, back toward the stream. Whoever had recently passed that way had trodden very lightly to try and disguise his path.
“What now, sir?”
Maximus frowned.
“Two went on while one went left. Without wanting to give you the shitty end of the stick, my friend, you’re more equipped to handle two than I am.”
Anakreon grinned and nodded.
“One for each hand: just how I like it. Meet you back at the village?”
“I hope so. Fortuna go with you.”
“And you.”
The two men clasped hands briefly and then separated, following the diverging trails.
After less than a minute, Maximus reached the edge of the corn field, his friend lost to sight in the distance. As he rode from the crop and out onto the grassy verge of the stream, he noted with interest the one, gnarled old tree that stood proud from the low bank. The well-concealed shape of a pair of shoulders was just visible around the sides.
“Come out and I’ll consider sparing you.”
There was a pregnant pause and finally the warrior rose from his crouch and walked around the side of the tree. A huge, bearded man with a long, strong face and an expensive felt cap, he was not the average warrior. Most of the Dacians fought like the Celts; naked or in rough clothes, furs and leather. This man, however, wore a bronze scale shirt that was almost concealed by the outer fur garment. A simple circlet held back the bulk of his wild, thick hair, and his stance was that of a nobleman. There was something familiar about him.
“I need information on the disposition of the remaining Dacian forces. If you comply with me, I will see to it that you live.”
The man shook his head. In a thick, deep, gravelly voice, he addressed his pursuer in passable Latin.
“Better to die now as a free man than to live in chains.”
Maximus shrugged.
“The emperor wants slaves. You’re no different from the rest.”
But he was. A flash of memory. He’d seen that face before. Twice even. Once at Tapae four years ago when the two opposing leaders had met to end the previous conflict and then again, recently, rising proud above the ramparts of Sarmizegethusa as Rome prepared to end the reign of…
“Decebalus.”
The man took a deep breath.
“I am King in my mountains. I will not be dragged through the streets of Rome for the glory of your emperor.”
Before Maximus could do anything to prevent it, the dethroned king produced a short, curved blade with an expensive gilded hilt and drew it across his neck, slicing through muscle, arteries and windpipe.
With a defiant rictus, the air whistling from his neck and a spray of crimson jetting out onto the grass, Decebalus, last king of Dacia, cast the soaked dagger to the ground at Maximus’ feet. The Roman officer slumped slightly in the saddle and shook his head as the king closed his eyes with deliberate slowness and slowly crumpled, the life going out of him as his crashed to the ground.
“I’m sure the emperor will be equally happy with your head, o king. A wasted gesture, sadly.”
He stared down at the body. The emperor had sent out the ‘exploratores’ units to search for a massed force of Dacian survivors preparing for another last stand. The truth seemed to be somewhat different. This was what Decebalus’ defiance had brought his people: small groups of fugitives fleeing through fields and hiding in farms. The conquest was truly over.
With a sigh, he drew his knife.
Perhaps thirty minutes later, Anakreon strode into open grassland from the cornfield. Covered in blood, one of his arms hung limp at his side and his horse was missing, but he bore a wide grin.
“Wondered if you were alright, sir? You never made it back to the village.”
He wandered across to his commander, who was seated on a rock by the water, his cloak bundled up to create a bag next to him. The big Greek frowned as he took in the blood-soaked grass and the headless body.
“Do tell.”
Wearily, Maximus lifted the heavy makeshift bag and passed it over. The bottom was black and glistening wet; grisly trophy that would end a war. A prize beyond imagining for a common soldier.
“I think Trajan is going to be happy with us, Anakreon.”
With a pinch of salt
The corridor was quiet and dark as Melicos pounded along it, his sandals flapping on the decorative marble floor, his way lit only by small pottery oil lamps flickering on ledges placed at regular intervals. His hand tilted expertly first one way and then the other with practiced ease, balancing the elegant silver platter with its succulent dish as he raced around corners, his expensive, sauce-spattered tunic wafting around him.
It was the lot of a slave, not a freedman, to spend his time running to keep his master happy but Melicos felt no shame at such behaviour. He had received his manumission some ten years ago at the behest of the glorious emperor Claudius Caesar and had remained in his former slave position gratefully, receiving a considerable wage, a small apartment of his own and a number of other benefits, not the least of which was living and working in the great Palatine complex.
The former slave had impressed the deformed, barely-audible and yet incredibly astute and careful Emperor from the very beginning with his innovative and masterful ability with food. Even as a slave he had gone from being a simple cook among a dozen others to running the kitchen in those first couple of years. Since his manumission and being given free rein to hire his own staff, however, his kitchen had become famous: the envy of Rome’s noble classes. Invitations to the emperor’s parties were sought after by the greatest generals and richest patricians. All for Melicos’ simple expertise with sauces and combinations.