Free Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield Page B

itself. ‘What’s that noise?’ he asked aloud. The expressions on the faces of the soldiers told him that they were thinking the same as him. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and nudged his mount into a canter.
    He had gone no further than a couple of hundred yards when his fears were confirmed. The sound had become the unmistakeable din of men shouting. Thousands of them. The shock hit Valerian like a hammer blow as he realised that, beyond the tree line, the Dacians were waiting for them. Fear leapt to his throat, but he had to go on. No scouts could be seen, so he, and he alone, was responsible for reporting the enemy’s dispostion.
    He urged the horse on, and soon he could see them: tens of thousands of infantry and horsemen in full battle array.
    Waiting for them.
    Valerian cursed, dragged his horse’s head about and galloped back to his men. ‘The Dacians,’ he gasped. ‘Get a message to the general – the Dacians are coming.’
    He gave the order to halt the line, and for a few bizarre minutes all was still. Then, as word began to spread, the confused expressions of the men became those of shock and fear. All at once, buccinas began to blare, commands shouted out and then ingrained discipline of the legions took over. Centurions, long experienced and well-used to the shock of ambuscade led the men to battle order.
    Valerian checked to see all was in order with his own command before cantering away from the front ranks and seeking Fuscus’s standard. He was not alone, officers from all over the army were now bounding in for orders.
    Valerian, as the first man to contact the enemy, forced his way to the front and blurted out the size and disposition of the force in front of them. To his credit, Cornelius Fuscus was not unhinged by the news. Indeed, he seemed to welcome it. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said.
    â€˜The enemy has made his error and it is for us to capitalise upon it.
    Facing us in open battle is at best overconfidence and at worst desperation. I neither know nor care which, only that Diurpaneus has saved us a long and drawn-out campaign of attrition. Instead, he has taken the honourable path of meeting us, face to face, man to man. I could almost admire him if it wasn’t my job to kill him!’
    Valerian and the others laughed politely. ‘Be that as it may,’
    Fuscus went on, ‘whilst the Dacian has done us this courtesy, I suspect that the longer we delay, the harder things will be. I have little time for Caesarian tactics, nor shall we need them in this instance. We must take the fight to the enemy, break the centre and allow our horsemen to envelop him. Keep your eyes and ears open for signals – I will convey more once I have assessed the situation first hand. To your posts, gentlemen.’ The general turned to him.
    â€˜Valerian.’
    â€˜Sir!’
    â€˜On return to your unit, it will be your honour to signal the advance. Take it to them, son.’
    Valerian swallowed. ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir!’ He hoped his expression was resolute as he turned his mount away, but the fear was crawling through him like maggots through a rotting core.
    He was not alone in this, he knew. No man, no matter how brave or experienced, was immune from the sudden jolt of terror when ordered into battle.
    Valerian rode back to his section, noting that his men were in a high state of readiness. Centurions and optios prowled the lines, dressing them with a curse here and crack of the vine staff there; it brought to mind a recent book that Valerian had read which cited that the Roman military’s drills were like bloodless battles, its battles bloody drills. This was where the Roman soldier found his courage: not in bluster or drink like a barbarian but in preparedness and routine. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves, trying to appear aloof. It was what the men expected.
    Suddenly, Valerian had to