Read Online Tales of Ancient Rome by S. J. A. Turney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: S. J. A. Turney
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himself well at Sarmizegethusa, but was largely untried otherwise. No competition, really.
“ Senna? I want you to stay here on the hilltop, but get back among those trees so you can’t be seen. Watch what happens and if there’s real trouble, ride hard for camp and let the emperor know what occurred.”
The young man nodded respectfully.
“ That means it’s down to the four of us. There are about a dozen huts down there, several barns, and four copses of trees. That means absolutely anything could be waiting for us. There could be three of them or three hundred. Opinions? Concerted front or scattered skirmish?”
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,
“ Senna? I want you to stay here on the hilltop, but get back among those trees so you can’t be seen. Watch what happens and if there’s real trouble, ride hard for camp and let the emperor know what occurred.”
The young man nodded respectfully.
“ That means it’s down to the four of us. There are about a dozen huts down there, several barns, and four copses of trees. That means absolutely anything could be waiting for us. There could be three of them or three hundred. Opinions? Concerted front or scattered skirmish?”
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,
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