The huge Thracian scratched his beard.
“Too dangerous to split up. Doesn’t matter if it takes us longer to find what we’re looking for, whatever it might be, but we have to be able to mutually defend.”
A chorus of nods confirmed the decision.
“Agreed. There’s a wooden bridge over the stream, but the whole thing’s narrow enough to jump. We ride hard, cross near the bridge and move like a harvest through the village. I want at least one of those men alive for questioning.”
“And if there’s a thousand men hiding in caves nearby?”
“Then we meet again in Elysium to lick our wounds. Come on.”
Kicking his heels into the horse, Maximus with his three companions rode down the slope toward the narrow valley, while young Senna disappeared from sight.
There was something glorious, even in the face of tremendous danger or the threat of the unknown, about charging downhill with spears out and trusted companions at your sides. Maximus found himself grinning wolfishly as he raced through the thick grass.
They had already covered a third of the distance when the alarm went up in the village. Chaos erupted among the thatched hovels and Maximus was both heartened and surprised to see that, despite the call, only perhaps eight or nine men appeared, arming themselves.
“We’ve got ‘em!” he called out above the rush of wind and the thunder of hooves.
The charge was always a dizzying blur. Not the standard tactic of a Roman cavalry unit and thrilling when experienced, the distance passed in the blink of an eye, drowned in adrenaline and the pounding of the blood. Before they had time to think, the four men had reached the small stream running to the west of the village. Orosius crossed the bridge, the horse’s hooves thundering on the timber, while the other three jumped the narrow defile with ease, racing on into the settlement.
With practiced efficiency, the cavalrymen drew back and cast their spears, each having marked a man. Two throws fell short, though Anakreon and Statilius found their targets, the spears punching through the Dacians’ unarmoured chests. One fell to the floor, thrashing around and trying to pull the spear out, mortally wounded yet defiant in defeat. The other was thrown back and lounged there, dead yet propped up by the shaft that stuck into the turf behind him.
Four men ran on toward them as they closed, drawing their swords. Three others took one look at the attackers and turned, running for one of the small copses dotted around the landscape.
A Dacian warrior, for all his lack of discipline and armour, was a formidable foe, as the armies of Trajan had discovered these past five years. The whole design of the standard legionary helmet was being reworked and re- manufactured with a reinforced cross-rib over the bowl to protect from the overhand blows with their dreadful weapons.
The falx, a two-handed long, curved sword wielded with the point forward, had proved most effective when brought down upon a legionary, invariably cleaving him in two, scything through the helmet as though it were made of linen.
As the Romans hurtled into their enemy, swords swinging as they closed, Orosius learned to his cost the second dreadful use of the falx. The huge, braided warrior who was running toward him ducked and swung the long concave blade with all his might, removing the front legs of the horse half way up their length. Rider and beast both went down in a screaming mess, colliding with the barbarian. Orosius died unnoticed by his comrades, the horrifying weapon buried deep in his back, slicing through ribs, spine and organs. The defender, however, had fared little better, his chest crushed under the weight of the horse and, after delivering the final blow to his Roman enemy with incredible fortitude, he collapsed onto his back and breathed his last.
Anakreon managed to manoeuvre his horse out of the way of a similar horrible blow, sweeping down with his long cavalry blade and neatly decapitating the Dacian, while crying out some blood-curdling curse in Greek and wheeling to see who else needed help.
Statilius was locked in desperate combat with one of the two remaining warriors in the village centre, their blades ringing off and grating along one another with spine-tingling noises. There was already a large chunk missing from the Roman’s large shield, mute evidence of the first blow that had been well delivered but better defended.
Maximus, an expert in the saddle even from a young age, raced on to his target and, as the man prepared to sweep at the horse’s legs, the cavalry officer threw himself forward over the beast’s neck and swept down with his blade, knocking the falx aside and riding over the man, hooves smashing bones and pulping innards.
Sparing barely a glance for Maximus, Anakreon rode across to give his other beleaguered companion a hand.
Moments later it was over. Eight bodies lay in the open space between the huts, only one Roman and one equine. Maximus turned and shaded his eyes, squinting in the direction the three fleeing warriors had taken. There was something odd about that. Why run, leaving their companions to fight? They had to be protecting something important; and if there was anything important enough worth protecting, the emperor would want to see it.
“Three others ran into those woods.'
His companions turned to look for the three fleeing barbarians but, as they did, Maximus’ attention was drawn to a sudden sharp intake of breath. His head snapping round, he was shocked and horrified to see the blood-soaked point of a Roman spear protruding from Statilius. The Dacian who had been impaled with an initial throw but left to die had, miraculously and through some sheer feat of will, managed to pull the spear from his chest and hurl it from his prone position, his shot true and strong.
“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
