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.
Carefully juggling the platter, spinning it expertly with his little finger to keep it balanced, Melicos bellowed an order as he ran and the door at the end of the corridor swung open as he neared it, granting access to the Imperial apartments.
On he ran, into the decorative entrance hall with its frescos of elegant parkland, lakes and bridges, swans and geese, colonnaded villas and trees. Deftly, he jumped a small table. He could have navigated the route from the kitchen to Claudius’ triclinium in the pitch darkness without spilling a drop, he’d done it so many times.
The smell of Melicos’ signature dish wafted after him as he ran.
His sauce cooks were all experts in their field. Pratucus had been chief chef to the governor of Narbonensis before his fame spread and Melicos sent him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Banathes was a Syrian who had risen to fame with his own chain of thermopolia in Emesa. He was often a little heavy on the spices, but was learning to temper his work for the more jaded palate of Rome. Latiades was a find: a Greek who could work wonders with mulsum.
It had been something of a wrench letting go of control over the sauces, but Melicos simply didn’t have time these days to work in as much detail as he used to, having to monitor the work of three dozen kitchen staff in an almost constant flurry. At least they were the three best sauce cooks to be found in the entire Empire.
Ha!
He laughed bitterly at the thought as he rounded another corner, slapping along into a wide corridor with bright windows that dazzled with sunlight, fading the beautiful painted griffins on the far wall.
One of the prized suilli, coated with his special sauce of mixed garlic, sea-salt, black pepper, reduced cream and crushed poppy seeds, rolled off the pile and, with a move that took more dexterity than any gladiator could ever hope to achieve, Melicos dipped and came up running still, the precious cargo rolling back into place, caught once more by the silver dish.
Claudius had always loved his suilli, but since that day that Melicos had perfected his sauce recipe, the emperor had refused to eat them in any other fashion, demanding the dish at least three times each week. It had
