Decebalus

I ruled Dacia from the Orăștie Mountains, with Sarmizegetusa Regia as my hearth and council. The valleys were many and the lords proud; I bound them by oath and need, for Rome pressed along the Danube and winter pressed from the peaks.

Under Domitian, the legions tested our passes. We answered first with spears, then with terms. In 89 we made a bargain: tribute and skilled men from Rome in exchange for quiet. I took their silver and their craft, strengthened stone‑and‑timber ramparts, stocked armories, and set watchfires from ridge to ridge. I sought neighbors as allies, for a single village cannot bear an empire’s weight.

Trajan came different—patient, iron in his hand. In the first war his roads and engines met our forests and ravines. We bled each other and signed a hard peace that left me a crown but tightened its band. I kept my word and readied all the same.

When he returned, the great river grew a bridge, and the earth shook under a mass of cohorts. We burned what we could not hold and drew them higher into the hills. At Sarmizegetusa they cut the water and broke our walls. Hemmed in, I would not be led for laughter in a foreign triumph. I chose my own end. The gold in our hills outlived me; Rome came for it anyway.