Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  Carefully Fergus took a deep breath as he prepared himself. If this went wrong he was going to look like a dick.

  “Long live the Seventh Cavalry Ala of Numidians!” he roared in the Numidian language - using the words that Crispus had taught him. And as he shouted out the last sentence, Fergus’s cry was met with complete and utter silence.

  “Long live the Seventh Cavalry Ala of Numidians!” Fergus roared again, using the words he had learned by heart. And suddenly from the parade ground the men answered with a loud bellowing roar of what sounded like approval.

  * * *

  The small statue of the Numidian god who protects travellers, looked rather crude, unfinished and hastily carved. Crispus had fashioned it from local stone and one of the arms was longer than the other. The religious figurine would have been considered junk by any self-respecting priest or merchant, but it was doing its job beautifully Fergus thought. He had placed the statue in the middle of the desert road and had decorated it with palm leaves and a small wooden figure of a camel. A large empty earthenware bowl lay at its feet. It was around noon and Fergus stood out in the middle of the road next to the statue. Along the desert highway that ran past the edge of his fort and the small oasis, his Numidian’s were sitting on their horses idly watching the long trade caravan that stood halted under the glare of the sun.

  “I have never heard of any Numidian god who protects travellers, “one of the caravan masters standing before Fergus snapped in an annoyed voice as he gazed down at the statue that barred the way. “This is crazy. You want us to give an offering to a god that does not exist.”

  “The god does exist,” Fergus replied smoothly as he folded his arms across his chest. “Crispus,” Fergus added turning to his standard bearer, “what is this god called again?”

  A few paces away Crispus blushed as he stared back at Fergus with a rigid expression.

  “I believe the men call him by many different names Sir,” Crispus said in a toneless voice, “but amongst Romans he is known as the god Mercury.”

  “You see,” Fergus said turning back to the group of caravan masters standing before him with a smile, “he exists.”

  “I am not paying. This is nothing more than simple and outrageous robbery,” one of the merchants cried out turning to spit on the ground close to the statue.

  “You will all make a donation,” Fergus growled as his face darkened, “and keep your voices down. If my men see you disrespecting their god you will be paying a lot more. They are a superstitious lot these Numidians and they don’t take kindly to strangers insulting their ways. Now gentlemen, please leave your donations in the bowl and then you may continue on your way knowing you have the protection of the Numidian god of travellers.”

  “This is a disgrace,” one of the caravan masters snapped as he angrily rounded on Fergus. “Don’t think I don’t know what is going on here. When I reach Antioch, I am going to report this robbery to the authorities. I am going to make a formal complaint.”

  “There are going to be consequences, mark my words,” another merchant hissed, glaring at Fergus as he reluctantly dropped a few silver coins into the bowl at the base of the statue. “You are supposed to be here to protect us, not rob us.”

  “Do what you wish gentlemen,” Fergus replied looking unfazed, “but the desert road is a dangerous one and what are a few coins to rich men like you. And as for reporting this to the authorities,” Fergus took a step towards the merchants, “the city authorities in Antioch can go kiss my hairy arse.”

  And as he said the last sentence a couple of his Numidian officer’s standing close by sniggered as they seemed to have understood the gist of the conversation.

  As the slow-moving trade caravan headed southwards down the road towards Palmyra and away from the oasis, Fergus watched them go until they had vanished from sight. Then quickly he turned and strode towards the spot in the road where Crispus was counting the coins left in the bowl.

  “How much did we take?” Fergus beamed as he slapped Crispus happily on his shoulder.

  “Not enough to make up the missing quarter,” Crispus replied, with a little disbelieving shake of his head, “But the next caravan that comes along the road should make up the deficit in the men’s pay Sir.”

  “Good,” Fergus grinned.

  “Are you not concerned that they will report this matter to your superior’s Sir?” Crispus sighed as he scooped the coins into a bag.

  “No,” Fergus replied as he turned to gaze at the Numidian riders whom were staring at him with curious silent faces. “I think Quietus and Taskforce Red will be relieved that it is not they who had to make up the deficit. Don’t worry about it. My men need to be paid and that trade caravan will sleep easy tonight, now that they enjoy divine protection. You did a fine job on that statue by the way,” Fergus grinned, as once more he slapped Crispus on his shoulder. “You have promise as a stone mason.”

  “Sure. The Numidian god who protects travellers,” Crispus muttered in a disbelieving voice. “Whatever will you come up with next Sir.”

  * * *

  “You wished to see me?” Eutropius said, as he was shown into Fergus’s quarters inside the mud-brick fort.

  As he caught sight of the doctor, Fergus rose to his feet from his desk where he had been writing a letter on papyrus.

  “Eutropius,” he exclaimed, as he finished the letter and rolled it up, “yes that’s right. Let’s go for a walk. I have something that I need to discuss with you.”

  “What’s on your mind?” the old Greek doctor asked as Fergus led them out into the sunny and dusty, parade ground. It had only been a few hours since they had stopped the last trade caravan and, out in the courtyard the Numidian’s had been set to work on infantry training and javelin throwing. Fergus paused for a moment to study the training exercises. The parade ground was alive with noise, cries and laughter. The Numidians would never be as good as the legionary heavy infantry at hand-to-hand combat Fergus thought, but the training kept them busy and active. The men were lining up to attack a wooden pole with their short swords, which had been placed in the centre of the parade ground. Further away another troop were practising their javelin throwing.

  “How is the health of my men?” Fergus asked as he turned towards the gates and glanced up at the ramparts to check whether the guards were at their posts.

  “Good overall. A few men are sick, but nothing that can affect the whole unit,” Eutropius replied with a shrug. “My work is done here. I am leaving for Palmyra tomorrow. I will be riding out with your dawn patrol.”

  Fergus said nothing as the two of them strode out of the gates and turned in the direction of the palm trees, which surrounded the small desert oasis.

  “Yes, about that,” Fergus said at last with a sigh. “I am going to need you to stay for a few days longer I’m afraid. There is something that I need you to do for me, doctor.”

  Eutropius stopped in his tracks and frowned.

  “I have other forts, other outposts which I must visit Fergus. I need to go.”

  “And you will,” Fergus replied smoothly, as his eyes lingered on the Bedouin tents beside the watering holes, “once you have done this last job for me. This is important, Eutropius. I need you to do this one last thing for me. There is no one else. I shall see to it that you will be compensated for your time.”

  “What is this job that you want me to do?” Eutropius asked, looking distinctly unhappy.

  Fergus turned to look Eutropius in the eye. “My men’s morale has been weak since the mutiny,” he said quietly. “One of the complaints that I have received is about the lack of leave. So, starting from today I am implementing a new rota. Every day one individual squadron in the cohort will be granted a day and night pass. That means that each squadron can expect a rest day, every sixteen days. Now some of the men will want to visit the whores at Resafa, which is the closest town to us. I need you to go there tomorrow. Speak to all the brothel owners and check the whores to see wherever th
ey are healthy. Here is the letter giving you my authority to do so,” Fergus added, as he held up the letter he’d just written. “I don’t mind my men visiting the brothels but I do not want them coming back with disease.”

  Eutropius was staring at the letter in silence. Then sharply he looked up at Fergus with an incredulous expression.

  “I am a trained doctor with thirty years’ experience,” he snapped in a deeply sarcastic voice. “I have a multitude of patients relying on me and my skill. Of-course I don’t mind checking out whores for you. It will be a pleasure.”

  Fergus was about to reply when from the watchtower in the fort, the alarm bell suddenly started to clang. Startled, he turned in the direction of the fort. On the ramparts, he heard the sentries crying out to each other.

  “Look,” Eutropius said sharply, pointing down the road to the south.

  Fergus turned and squinted. Tearing towards them down the desert road was a single Numidian horseman. The man was galloping towards them and shouting at the top of his lungs at same time and, as he heard the man’s cries Fergus felt the cold touch of alarm run down his spine. Something was wrong.

  As the horseman drew closer Fergus realised he had come from one of his mounted patrols.

  “Seems there is trouble on the road to the south,” Eutropius shouted as the two of them started to run back to the fort.

  Chapter Seventeen - The Right Horn of the Bull

  On both sides of the straight Roman road the dusty, gravelly desert stretched away to the horizon - flat, bleak and featureless. In the distance, a flock of carrion birds were circling lazily on the air currents and a pillar of black smoke was rising into the sky. Fergus glanced at the column of black smoke as he galloped southwards deeper into the desert, followed by three-hundred mounted Numidian riders. The presence of the birds and the smoke had to mean that he was close, but it could also mean that he was too late. The thud of hundreds of horses’ hooves filled the desert. The horseman who had raised the alarm had come from the squadron that was patrolling the road to the south. He had reported that a trade caravan had been attacked by camel-mounted Arab raiders who had appeared out of the desert. But that had been several hours ago now and only the gods knew what had happened since then. Fergus bit his lip. It was the same trade caravan which had passed through the oasis earlier that day.

  Anxiously Fergus peered into the dusty light ahead. He had never led a cavalry force into a fight before. He had no experience of how his Numidians liked to fight. Nor did he understand the desert, but men’s lives were going to depend on him getting it right. He had to get it right. It was his job to keep this desert road open and safe for travellers and he could not fail his first serious test. Galloping along beside him, Crispus was holding up the cohort’s banner, his face stained with dust and sweat. The column of smoke was closer now and suddenly Fergus caught sight of the spot where the trade caravan had been ambushed. Dead horses and camels lay on their sides in the dust and wrecked wagons and bodies were strewn across the road and the desert. One of the broken wagons, filled with barrels, was on fire and sending black-smoke billowing upwards. Carrion birds were swooping down on the corpses and the carnage and debris had attracted other scavengers - for out in the desert two sleek cheetahs were carefully watching and waiting their turn. As Fergus cautiously slowed his horse to a trot and gazed at the ambush, he frowned. The carnage was horrific but the dead were few. The trade caravan had been much larger when it had passed through his oasis only a few hours earlier. Had the rest managed to escape?

  In the desert to the east, Fergus suddenly caught sight of horsemen racing towards him, throwing up small clouds of dust. Fergus raised his fist in the air and turned to face the newcomers and, as they approached, he saw that they were Numidians from the southern patrol. The men were shouting excitedly in their native language as they rode up to him, brandishing their small, round shields and javelins, their goat skin cloaks covered in dust.

  “What are they saying?” Fergus cried, turning to Crispus.

  Crispus was silent for a few moments as he stared at the excited men.

  “They say that they noticed the smoke and came to investigate. They arrived just in time to witness the ambush as it was winding down,” Crispus explained. “The Arabs were many. They had horses and camels and they had come from the east.” Crispus paused as the Numidian decurion jabbered away excitedly in his own language. “He says that he did not have enough men to attack the raiders Sir. He could do nothing for the merchants. So, he decided to observe the Arabs and send a message to you to bring reinforcements. He says the Arabs were after the caravan’s camels and horses. They killed the men guarding the caravan but spared everyone else. The merchants Sir, they surrendered, but not before they managed to set one of their wagons on fire. The smoke was meant to warn us.”

  “Where are the survivors now?” Fergus cried out.

  Hastily Crispus translated. Then he turned to Fergus.

  “He says the raiders took them prisoner Sir. The Arabs bound them together like slaves and then they led them away eastwards into the desert. They took the camels and horses and all the trade goods too. He says Sir, that he followed them for a while but he turned back when he feared an ambush.”

  Quickly Fergus looked up at the sun.

  “How long ago was this? How fast were they travelling?”

  Again, Crispus translated. He was rewarded with another excited jabber of words from the Numidian decurion. “It was a few hours ago but the raiders were moving slowly. The prisoners were walking and the Arabs had a lot of loot. They can’t have gone far with all those trade goods and supplies.”

  Fergus bit his lip as once more he looked up at the sun. It was late in the afternoon and there might just be enough time left before it grew too dark to safely pursue the raiders. But it was a gamble. His horses were tired and they had no reserves of water. However, if he waited until the morning it would be too late and the Arabs would have vanished into the wastelands.

  “Tell him that he did the right thing,” Fergus said glancing at the decurion, “and tell him that I need him to show me in which direction the raiders went. We are going to head into the desert to free those merchants. No one attacks our road without suffering the consequences.”

  * * *

  It was late in the day when Fergus at last saw the Arabs. The raiders seemed to have spotted their pursuers before he had caught sight of them, for they were no longer moving and had instead formed a tight, circular defensive camp in the middle of the desert. It was as if they had realised that they could not outrun their pursuers. Hastily Fergus raised his fist in the air and the column of Numidians slowed their horses to a walk and began to fan out into a broad, single line. Tensely Fergus peered at the enemy. The Arab warriors were clothed in simple sheets of cloth wrapped around their bodies and they had very long, black hair and neatly trimmed beards. There were maybe a hundred of them, armed with shields, spears and swords. A proud Arabic flag fluttered in the gentle wind. The Arabs had formed their defensive camp by making their camels sit down on the ground in a tight circle, their big impassive heads facing outwards, and as he studied the animals, Fergus could see that they were all roped together. Behind the camels the dismounted Arabs stood watching and awaiting his approach in complete silence.

  “The horses Sir,” Crispus exclaimed, as he peered at the enemy, “the horses fear the camels, they don’t like how they smell. They won’t go near them. That’s why the Arabs have formed them into a wall.”

  Fergus did not reply as he studied the enemy camp. Inside the protective line of camels, he could see a group of men sitting on the ground. Their hands were tied behind their backs and like the camels they were all roped together. They had to be the surviving merchants who had been taken prisoner. And outside the camp a line of camels and horses, roped together, stood abandoned and on their own without moving. Fergus frowned. The Arabs seemed to have left these beasts completely unprotected. Was this some sort of trick? Some of th
e camels still contained their packs and heavy saddle bags and Fergus realised that these must be the captured camels from the trade caravan. Was this a subtle message from the raiders saying take back your beasts and goods and leave us in peace with our new slaves? Fergus took a deep breath. He didn’t know any of the customs of the desert but he was not leaving without the prisoners.

  An arrow suddenly thudded into the ground a few paces from the silent Numidian battle line that was forming. But no one took any notice.

  “The merchants are not to be harmed. I want them alive,” Fergus growled turning to Crispus. “Kill everyone else. Blood has been spilt. Make sure that the men have understood.”

  In reply Crispus raised his voice and cried out in the Numidian language, turning to his left and then to his right as he repeated himself. As he fell silent, Fergus was gazing impassively at the strange, makeshift enemy camp. Along the Numidian battle-line the horsemen were preparing themselves for battle.

  Sharply Fergus twisted on his horse to check that his men were in position and, as he saw that they were, he raised his fist high in the air and brought his arm down towards the right.

  “Right horn of the bull,” Fergus roared using the Numidian battle orders and words he’d learned. “Right horn of the bull!”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then a great roar rose from the Numidian ranks and at the far-right end of the line a solitary horseman surged towards the enemy flank. The lead horseman was swiftly followed by another and then another and as the Numidians calmly peeled away to the right and swept towards the enemy’s right flank in a long and perfectly spaced single filed column, they raised their javelins into throwing positions. Fergus’s cheeks blushed in sudden admiration, for he had never seen this ala, his cohort, fight before. His Numidians were superb horsemen, controlling their mounts without the slightest difficulty. Wrenching his eyes away from his men, Fergus turned to stare at the enemy as he and Crispus too peeled off towards the right and joined the fast-moving column, that was enveloping the Arab camp. The Numidians didn’t need to be told how to fight Fergus thought. He could see that they knew exactly what to do. His men were keeping their distance from the camels and, as they came tearing past the circular camp, a barrage of javelins was launched and hurled at the defenders. Fergus, lacking a spear, could do nothing but maintain his position in the fast-moving column and that was hard enough. As the lead horseman who was leading the whole cohort galloped around the camp, he turned leftwards and then away from the Arabs. After some distance, he slowly wheeled around again for another attack pass. From within the circle of camels the screams of the wounded and the defiant cries of the defenders filled the desert, but apart from the odd arrow or spear the defenders could do little to stop the attack. His Numidians had the raiders pinned down Fergus thought with a sudden savage, satisfaction. Up ahead the stream of riders was wheeling around in a graceful oblong figure of eight, as the horsemen came charging back to launch another barrage of javelins. Fergus gazed at the sight with wide-open eyes. He had understood the theory of cavalry tactics but he had never seen it put into practice with such skill and professionalism. The lead riders were once again peeling off towards the right flank and suddenly Fergus realised why. The men were all clutching their small round shields in their left hands and their javelins in their right. To wheel away towards the right allowed them to protect themselves from enemy missiles.