Fists of Iron: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume Two Read online

  Barbarian of Rome

  Chronicles Volume Two

  FISTS OF IRON

  Nick Morris

  PURCHACE PUBLISHING

  Published in the United

  Kingdom by Purchace Publishing

  Copyright © 2014 Nick Morris

  Author’s website

  www.nickmorris.me.uk

  Nick Morris has asserted his

  right under the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988 to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  ISBN 978-1-84396-225-0

  Also available as a paperback

  ISBN 978-1-50011-124-3

  A CIP catalogue record for

  this ebook is available from the

  British Library.

  Kindle edition production

  www.ebookversions.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or

  introduced into a retrieval system

  or transmitted in any form

  or by any means electronic,

  photomechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise without

  the prior written permission

  of the publisher. Any person who

  does any unauthorised act in

  relation to this publication may be

  liable to criminal prosecution.

  For my dear parents

  Duane & June –

  as good as it gets.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright & Credits

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Historical Afterword

  Glossary

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Foreword

  Very little is known about the Dacian people except that they were ultimately Thracian in origin. They are first mentioned in Latin and Greek texts as the Getae (Getai in Greek). An extremely fierce warrior people, the Getae were said to dye their hair blue, and were of mixed Scythian and Thracian descent.

  In the Ist Century B.C. a new chieftain arose named Burebista. Little is known of his rise to power, other than he was greatly aided by a wizard named Deceneus, who’d been educated in Egypt. Thanks to Deceneus’ influence Burebista was able to obtain total obedience from his people, even when he ordered them to cut their precious grape-vines and forego wine.

  Burebista was to wage wars of conquest in the Balkans. He led armies of Falx swinging warriors against Celts, Thracians, Romans, Greeks and fellow Dacians. Burebista united the Dacian people, transforming a collection of disparate, warring tribal states into a single kingdom. He also gave them common rivals and enemies to fight – in the shape of the Celts and the Romans. However, he was not totally against the Romans, and sent one of his warriors named Acornion as an advisor to Pompey during his struggle against Caesar. This, together with the Dacian raids into the Roman territory a few years later, inspired Caesar’s bitterness against Burebista, fuelling his plans to thwart the latter’s rising Empire.

  Burebista ruled a united kingdom along the Danube until 44BC., when he was cut down by aristocrats who felt that he had grown too powerful. Overall, his demise was not unlike his rival Caesar, who perished in a similar fashion that same year. Burebista’s demise ushered in a period of relative anarchy. Dacia was split into a number of smaller kingdoms and thus weakened.

  In A.D.106 Roman Emperor Trajan set out to destroy his troublesome neighbours. His doctor, Criton, gloated that when Trajan had finished with them, there were just ‘forty’ Dacians surviving. Trajan himself thought it worthy to boast that he, ‘Single-handedly annihilated the people of Dacia.’ The claim that only ‘forty’ survived is a gross exaggeration, but Dacia was drained of its population as its natives were taken as slaves or as soldiers in the Roman legions. When Dacia was looted by Rome, the armies brought home over 1,500 tons of gold and over 3,000 tons of silver.

  The Dacian people in reality weren’t ‘annihilated’ but their culture, traditions and religion seem to have been.

  To rub salt into the memory of Dacia it was even renamed for Rome...we call it Romania.

  Nick Morris. 2014.

  Chapter 1

  DRILGISA

  Dacian border with the

  Roman Empire – early Ist Century A. D.

  The rising sun’s rays cut through the forest fringing the adjacent hills. The beams of light illuminated the massed squares of Roman infantry that moved steadily forward across the broad valley floor. The early mist was growing ragged, driven by a cold wind.

  Drilgisa could hear a fox barking high up in the forest at his back, and a vixen’s answering cry. The waiting seemed endless, but he knew the quiet wouldn’t last. Then all along the battle line coursed a ripple of expectancy, like the silent pull on the taut string of a bow. War horns snarled in the mist followed by the strident flare of Roman trumpets. The shouting began, together with the cursing and clatter of Dacian weapons on shields, and a growing rumble in the ground.

  He felt a cold shiver run the length of his spine as he watched the advancing army. Stood in the front rank of the Dacian host he was young to fight in such a battle – barely fifteen summers – but he was tall and strong; as strong as many that stood alongside him. He shifted his hands on the grip of his scythe-like sword, the deadly falx. Its rough leather handle felt good, steeled him. Come Romans, and feel its bite, he challenged inside his head, let it drink your blood.

  He put up his hand unconsciously and felt the raised lines that stretched from his temples to the middle of his forehead. Ten days previously Bikili had come to him. A small ancient man, dried and shrivelled like old ox-hide and greatly respected for his wisdom and his skill. He’d lain on his back as Bikili had drawn the pattern with the spike of crow’s feather dipped in woad – that of the two facing wolves’ heads bordered by a complex pattern of spirals. After that, Bikili’s nephew had taken over with his tattooing needles and pots of red and black dye. The memory of the stinging torment made the skin tingle between his eye-brows. He smiled, proud of the potent symbol of his people and his manhood.

  The warriors all around him screamed loud obscenities at the advancing wall of steel. The Romans had the greater numbers, but his chiefs had pic
ked their fighting ground to good advantage, their force arrayed like a great winding snake across a low hillside, with a thick forest of tall oak, beech and black wood at their rear. It was a good place to fight and kill, where the Romans would have little room to use their mounted warriors. Weapons were shaken in defiance, some warriors exposing their cocks, others spitting and screaming as they stirred themselves to a pitch. Drilgisa could hear the man next to him grind his teeth between curses as he shook his axe over his shield at the enemy.

  Drilgisa swallowed hard, the flickering sun highlighting the tips of the Roman spears jutting forwards between their large shields. He knew where to strike with his falx, he’d practiced the stroke thousands of times, until his palms grew bloody, the skin eventually turning to hard callouses. The great sword gave him a good reach and he would aim for the neck area between the helmet and chest armour, over the top of the shield.

  A chill breeze swept across the host and Drilgisa could smell the fresh forest tinged with the stink of piss and shit. He spat with disdain, ashamed that others could not control their fear. He told himself that he wasn’t afraid, although his mouth was dry, and there was a tension in his chest, like a beast tensing its muscles to spring. He reasoned that his father had scourged anything like fear from him as a boy, before he died, before he killed him. Drilgisa felt no sorrow that he might die, only a detached bitterness. There was no one to mourn him, with his mother many years in the ground. His father’s new wife – who became Drilgisa’s property after his death – hated him and his coldness. She would soon find another cock if he fell.

  The distance between the two armies had closed to fifty paces and the Roman ranks parted to expose large metal bows mounted on wheels. Drilgisa watched with horrid fascination as the machines’ bow strings twanged dully, to be followed by a rush of air and then screams of pain, as six foot metal spears ripped into the Dacian front ranks. Drilgisa watched the iron bolts tear great holes among them, spearing men together and crushing them into the ranks behind. Drilgisa gripped his falx harder, bellowing a curse of his own. The initial carnage was terrible, and he realized that the Dacian commanders had trouble stopping their warriors rush forward and losing the advantage of the slopes on which they were arrayed; the Romans having to trudge uphill to engage them.

  The iron bolts ran out and there were shouted commands from the Roman ranks that Drilgisa could hear plainly but not understand. Then the sky was filled with a blackness that for a few heartbeats dimmed the light of the sun. The Roman javelins fell in a hail of sharp iron. Drilgisa ducked instinctively, knowing that his leather armour would provide no protection against this deadly shower if he were struck. The teeth grinder next to him belched out a painful cry. A javelin had struck him in the eye, ripping through his head to jut out the back of his skull. He was dead before hitting the ground. Drilgisa kicked the body aside, closing the gap in the ranks. The warrior at his side elbowed him to get his attention.

  “Good, stay tight,” he advised, “That’s the best they can do as long as our line doesn’t break up. Stand firm and we’ll soon get to grips with the bastards, and then we’ll make them pay.”

  Drilgisa briefly turned to the warrior.

  He was old, deep-chested. His thick beard and black hair were grizzled with grey, unlike the majority of the younger warriors who died their long hair blue, like he did. He carried a round shield, decorated with a snarling wolf’s head daubed in red. A dented conical helmet with a nasal guard capped his head and he gripped a heavy single edged sword in his right fist. Drilgisa’s keen eye noticed that its sharp edge was marked with deep nicks from past battles. He knew that the warrior was worth listening to.

  The veteran leaned close, his breath stinking of stale meat and bad teeth. “When we close with them, keep close and I’ll try to protect your left side with my shield. Just keep swinging that sword. They will aim for your guts and your balls with their short swords. Just keep swinging…understand?”

  Drilgisa nodded his head in acknowledgement.

  The rain of death had stopped and the entire front of the Roman army now moved forward as one as more commands rang out. The Dacian ranks were now much quieter, and the sound of a thousand iron shod Roman boots moving steadily forwards filled the air. Drilgisa could feel the ground thrum beneath his feet.

  The Roman front advanced to twenty paces, then ten. He could see the faces of his enemies above their shields. Some set hard, resolute, others pale with fear. Good, I will give you cause to be afraid. Drilgisa grinned, an awful rictus. He felt his excitement build, and he ran his tongue over his top lip, tasting the salty tang of his own sweat. Ten paces…Drilgisa’s heart felt as if it would burst from his chest and his mouth was suddenly dry. Now five paces…Drilgisa blinked the sweat from his eyes. He drew his falx back, high over his right shoulder, as he’d drilled to do so many times. The Roman wall of steel was almost on him, so close he could see the colour of the Roman’s eyes in front of him: rabbit brown orbs stretched wide. The Roman’s short sword stabbed out. Drilgisa twisted his body, but too late! Then the sword was turned aside just as its point pierced his leather jerkin, the old warrior’s shield batting it off target.

  The Roman, now slightly overextended, took a step forward, his upper body tilting to his front, his head now slightly lowered. Drilgisa advanced, his weight switching to his front foot as he swept the falx down over the rim of his adversary’s shield, into the crease where the Roman’s head met his shoulder. The Roman screamed, the falx’s razor edge cleaving him to the chest bone. Drilgisa smiled, a strange headiness washing over him, Gods, this is being alive…stronger than ale, sweeter than fucking! It’s everything I hoped it would be. He ripped his falx free from the Roman’s chest, at the same time stepping back into formation. The Roman’s life blood had showered his chest and face, before he’d crumpled to the earth. Drilgisa licked his splashed lips, savouring the coppery taste.

  “That’s the way,” the old warrior’s voice rang out at his side, “keep swinging that fucking beauty.”

  Drilgisa sucked in a deep breath, sparing a quick look to either side of where he fought. Great clouds of steam blanketed the battling warriors, sweating bodies straining to gain ground over the dead bodies of their foes. The grating clang of sword and axe was intermingled with the screams of startled pain as sharp iron cut flesh, as the dying cried out. Some pleaded for mercy, others to an end to the pain. There will be no mercy today, thought Drilgisa.

  The two hosts were fully engaged to each side of him, along the entire curve of the valley. He quickly fixed his gaze back to his front.

  Where his victim had fallen another Roman had stepped forwards into the breach which was again unbroken. He could not help but admire such iron discipline.

  A short sword darted towards his guts, but this time he was ready. He had always been quick to learn things that involved fighting and inflicting pain on others. Even that black dog who he’d once called father had agreed that he had a special talent for such things. This time he struck not the man but at the sword itself, the contact shuddering up the length of his arms. The heavy falx snapped the Roman sword in two. Following up his advantage he pushed forwards, kicking against the Roman’s shield, knowing that he’d be unable to counter him. The Roman staggered back into the man at his rear. He had nowhere to go, and seeing his plight raised his shield upwards to protect his head against to deadly falx.

  Dropping into a squat Drilgisa swept his blade in a low ark, slicing clean through his opponent’s left leg just above the knee. The Roman toppled onto his side, his bloody stump spraying blood skyward. Before his fellow Romans could step forward to protect their prone comrade, Drilgisa struck again, the falx chopping into the fallen Roman’s face. The falx bit deep, its curved edge slicing through the bronze cheek guard on the Roman‘s helmet. The Roman squealed once, like a wounded pig, and then he was silent. Grunting with effort, Drilgisa tried to wrench his blade free, but it was stuck fast. Romans pressed in on him from the front and
sides. Blade tips licked towards him. He felt a hot pain in his thigh and knew he was cut. He had no choice but to abandon his falx. He let go and jumped back.

  Fuck it, he cursed. Where was the old bastard?

  Back in formation he realized there was no one standing at his right side for at least five paces. The old warrior lay face down in the bloody muck nearby, recognisable by the scarred hand that even in death gripped the notched sword. He’d fallen where he’d made his stand, a Roman javelin jutting from his neck.

  Wasting no time on the dead, Drilgisa faced his enemies once more. A great barritus went up from the Roman formation as they advanced as one. Their greater numbers and iron discipline was taking its toll. The Roman wall of bristling iron moved steadily forwards against a reeling battle line, over dead and wounded alike. Gaps were appearing in the Dacian ranks, with sections being forced backwards up the slope of the hill, towards the dark forest guarding their rear. A salvo of javelins and sling-stones ripped into them, and more warriors went down.

  Drilgisa snatched up the old warrior’s shield, just in time to block a sword thrust as the Roman shield wall pressed steadily forwards. He drew his long dagger from his scabbard at his waist. He parried another word thrust with it. He knew he would soon be cut down, and bitterness rose up in him. He felt no fear of imminent death, just a terrible regret that he would not survive to kill again.

  All about him loud commands in Dacian erupted, “Back! Fall back to the forest. Fall back!”

  In response, Drilgisa screamed a great “Nooooo!” into the face of his nearest foe. The Roman halted for a brief moment, so awful was the ululation.

  But, despite his rancour, Drilgisa knew at that vital moment that he must live to fight on, that there would other days to kill these Roman dogs. He threw his long knife into the started Roman’s face, saw it clang from the top of the warrior’s helmet before he turned and was running. He dropped his shield as it would only slow him.