Free Tales of Ancient Rome by S. J. A. Turney

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