Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  As another barrage of javelins went hurtling into the Arab camp, men toppled over, crashed to the ground, their heads jerking upwards, their weapons falling from their hands. There was no place to hide from the continuous and murderous barrage of javelins that came flying into the camp. Then, as the lead rider repeated the oblong figure of eight manoeuvre and came in for a third attack run, Fergus could see that it was nearly over. Inside the Arab camp a few men were screaming in pain but most of the defenders and many of the camels were lying dead on the ground, torn apart by over seven-hundred Numidian javelins.

  “Dismount! Dismount!” Fergus roared, using the Numidian word he had learned. And without waiting for his men to obey the order, Fergus broke formation, slowed his horse and slid to the ground. Around him the Numidian attack column slowed. Spotting Fergus and Crispus, clutching the cohort banner, and advancing on foot towards the few survivors and the screams of the wounded, the column of horsemen turned inwards towards the enemy camp. Many of the riders were following Fergus’s example and dismounting. As he approached the carnage Fergus pulled Corbulo’s old gladius, short sword, from its sheath. He was only a few yards away from one of the dead camels when an Arab, with long black flowing hair rose from the ground, his face contorted and came yelling towards Fergus, clutching a sword. But before the man had gone more than a few paces he was struck square in the chest by a javelin, which sent his legs kicking up into the air, before with a thud he landed on his back. Fergus paused and gazed down at the dying man and, as he did Hiempsal calmly walked past him and placing his foot on the Arab’s chest, pulled his javelin from the man’s body. Then turning to give Fergus a proud, defiant look, Hiempsal moved on into the enemy camp.

  Most of the Arab raiding party had been killed or wounded and, as Fergus and the Numidians silently moved through the camp, Fergus’s eyes widened as he saw the damage his cavalry-attack had wrought. The Numidians were not taking any prisoners. They were killing the wounded and robbing them. But when some of the men started to move towards the stationary line of heavily-laden merchants’ camels, Fergus had Crispus call them back. In the middle of the bloody carnage Fergus paused and turned to look around. The only survivors seemed to be the prisoners, although he could see that some of the merchants had been killed in the fight. The silent, terrified businessmen were sitting huddled together on the ground, their hands still bound behind their backs and many of them were trembling and shaking with fear. Amongst them Fergus suddenly recognised a few of the merchants who had argued with him out on the desert road, only hours before, in front of the statue of the Numidian god. And standing in between the merchants, with his hands raised in surrender, was a solitary Arab; a young man, barely old enough to grow a beard. The man was crying out in his native language, his pleading eyes fixed on Fergus.

  “Cut them free,” Fergus snapped, gesturing at the merchants, “And I want that prisoner kept alive. He is not to be harmed. Bind his hands and feet. I want to interrogate him later. Make that clear.”

  As Crispus repeated his orders to the Numidians, Fergus strode up to the merchants and gazed down at them with a hard expression.

  “So, we meet again,” he growled. “The Numidian god who protects travellers was watching over you today. Do any of you doubt me now?”

  On the ground, none of the businessmen wanted to meet his eye and nervously they shifted their gazes and not a man said a word.

  “Well I hope you remember that when you reach Antioch,” Fergus snapped. Then he turned to look up at the sun. It was growing late. He would have to really hurry if he wanted to make it back to the road before dark.

  “You should kill that boy,” one of the merchants suddenly exclaimed, gesturing at the pleading prisoner, his lip curling in fury and with hate in his eyes. “I know these Arabs. I know that boy and the men who attacked us. They are impure. He comes from an impure tribe. They are murderers, rapists, scum, outlaws. They have no honour. They conduct razzia’s because none of the other desert tribes will have anything to do with them. And they were not only after our goods. They asked me about women. He does not deserve mercy. He deserves to die. He deserves to die slowly.”

  Fergus glanced at the prisoner who was being forced to his knees whilst his hands and feet were bound together.

  “Maybe,” Fergus replied, “but first I shall interrogate him.”

  “Then be careful Roman,” the merchant hissed, “for these raiders have a reputation for being cunning and have a way with words. They are expert liars. Do not trust anything he says. Their camels may give them a strategic mobility but their slyness is their most dangerous attribute.”

  * * *

  “The young man says Sir that the men you killed were just a small part of his tribe,” Crispus said wearily. “He says that his tribe are large and powerful and that they will avenge those whom have fallen.”

  Fergus, Crispus and a few Numidian’s were standing in Fergus’s quarters back in their mud brick fort, looking down at the blindfolded prisoner who was sitting on the ground with his hands tied behind his back.

  “Ask him what his people are doing here; what their intentions are?” Fergus growled.

  Crispus translated and once the prisoner had replied, he turned to Fergus.

  “He says that the desert belongs to no man. They have a right to move where they like and take what they can,” Crispus replied. “He says every man must fight to survive in the desert. He says that his tribe have no intention of leaving.”

  “So, more attacks on our road are likely,” Fergus said with a frown.

  Crispus nodded silently.

  For a long moment Fergus said nothing, as he gazed down at the Arab prisoner. The news that a new and hostile desert-tribe had moved into and occupied the area, was unwelcome - a distraction. He hadn’t come here to fight desert nomads. He really needed to find out what Quietus’s intentions towards Hadrian were when his boss became the next emperor, but ever since he’d agreed to the mission, something had always conspired to drive him further and further away from his objective. It was as if the gods were toying with him, playing their little games and mocking his powerlessness. It was maddening but there was nothing he could do about it. The old plan remained his best chance. Turn his cohort around and impress Quietus and then maybe he would get his chance. He would need to remain patient.

  Sitting on the ground the blindfolded boy was trembling and he genuinely looked frightened but the merchant’s warning was still stuck in his mind.

  “All right,” Fergus said, making up his mind. “Get him up on his feet and take that blindfold off him.”

  As Crispus and the Numidians did as he had asked, Fergus took a step towards the young man, fixing his eyes on the prisoner.

  “Now you listen to me you little shit,” Fergus hissed, allowing Crispus to translate. “I don’t care how large and important your tribe think they are, but if there is one more attack on my road, I swear by all the gods that I will find and destroy your people. Nowhere will be safe for them. I will hunt you down. Today you have seen what we can do. Tell your elders that they have been warned.”

  Then, without allowing the prisoner to reply, Fergus gestured for the blindfold to be replaced.

  “Take him out into the desert, a good distance from here and then set him free with some water,” Fergus ordered.

  Chapter Eighteen - A Lesson in Respect

  “ Galena to her Fergus, dearest husband, I hope you are well and that your new posting out in the desert is not too harsh and isolated. I miss you Fergus. Yesterday I at last received long-awaited news from Rome. Kyna writes that she is well and in good health. She seemed surprised that we thought otherwise. I am so happy for this must remove the fear that I know has lain heavy on your heart. The girls have started to feel finally at home in Antioch, as have I. They miss you and Briana is constantly asking when you will come home. Hadrian does not talk about you. We do not see much of him for he is always busy and away at the imperial palace, but when he is at home
he sometimes brings the girls flowers which they adore. I think he likes having the children in the house. Every day now new contingents of soldiers have been passing through the city, heading northwards. The rumour here in Antioch is that the war with Armenia and Parthia will begin in earnest in the spring. No doubt you will be taking part. So, I am thinking about bringing the girls out into the desert to visit you but you must let me know if this is a good idea. Keep my amulet close and keep your senses about you Fergus. We are all praying daily for your safe return to us…”

  Silently Fergus lowered the letter onto the table and for a moment he fondly traced his finger across Galena’s words. Then he rubbed his hand across his cheek. There was no chance that he’d invite Galena and his daughters to visit him out here on the frontier. Not with the situation so volatile. He was sitting alone in his quarters and, outside in the courtyard of the fort, he could faintly hear the Numidians laughing as they went about their training exercises. A month or so had passed since the encounter with the Arab raiding-party and Galena’s precious letter had arrived just that morning, passed to him by merchants from one of the regular trade caravans. So, his mother was well, despite what Marcus had said, Fergus thought. It was good news but it confirmed that his father had not been telling the truth. He had suspected that. It also meant that his father had known about the assassination attempt on Hadrian. Kyna’s letter to Galena had all but confirmed that. Fergus sighed. It gave Hadrian the moral right to take revenge. Galena had been careful not to include any reference to the assassination in case Hadrian was somehow secretly monitoring her letters. Good girl, Fergus thought, for that was just the sort of thing Hadrian and Attianus were capable of doing. Then with growing despair Fergus groaned and lowered his head into his hands. His whole family were however still in mortal danger and it was all his father’s fault. How had Marcus allowed himself to get involved in this whole sordid mess? How could he have been so stupid? How the fuck had his father managed to get himself onto Hadrian’s death list? This was something that would not only affect Marcus but the whole family. He knew he had to do something about it but what could he do? The only solution was for Hadrian to change his mind but what was going to make Hadrian change his mind? What?

  “Sir,” a voice said from the doorway, “Sir, everything all right?”

  Hastily Fergus looked up. It was Crispus. The old soldier looked concerned.

  “I am fine. What’s the matter?” Fergus said quickly as he cleared his throat.

  “Trouble Sir,” Crispus replied, as he hastened into the room. “We have just had another report from one of the patrols out on the northern sector of the road. They spotted Arab raiders out in the desert, about a hundred and fifty men. They were riding camels and horses Sir, but just like yesterday, they did not attack the caravans. They seemed content to shadow them and they disappeared before it grew dark. Do you want to speak to the men yourself? They have just returned.”

  “Shit,” Fergus muttered with a worried look, as he gazed down at his desk. “How many sightings does that make in the past few days?”

  “Five Sir,” Crispus replied. “And every time the raiders were happy to show themselves, but did not engage. The merchants are getting very nervous. They say that they have never seen the Arabs behave like this before.”

  “All right,” Fergus looked up at Crispus and nodded, “bring the patrol leader to me and round up the other officers as well. We are going to have to deal with this. It’s plain that something odd is going on out in the desert.”

  * * *

  When the decurion, with Crispus translating, at last finished his report, Fergus looked concerned. With his officers gathered around him he stood behind his desk with his hands placed on his hips, looking down at the crude mock-up of the sixty-mile sector of the desert frontier for which he was responsible. Outside in the courtyard the noise from the men’s training exercises had ceased. It was getting to be late in the evening but Fergus had banished all thought of food, drink or rest.

  “Five enemy sightings at different points along the road within the space of a few days,” he mused, reaching out to tap the map at the points where the Arabs had been spotted. “And yet they do not attack, they just observe. What are they waiting for? What are they trying to do?”

  For a moment, the room remained silent. Then Fergus grunted.

  “Three sightings to the north towards Sura,” he said suddenly, “and two to the south in the direction of Palmyra. Each time the Arabs showed themselves at least twenty miles from our fort. They are testing us. They are trying to stretch our resources but why?”

  “You think these sightings are meant as diversions,” Crispus asked.

  “Could be,” Fergus muttered. “Look at the distances at which we are sighting these Arab raiding parties. They are at least forty miles apart. If we sent a force to intercept them, let’s say here in the north, that would mean they would be free to strike in the south. There is no way our men could cover forty miles quickly enough to pursue them into the desert. I think they are trying to lure us into committing ourselves before they will attack.”

  Crispus quietly translated Fergus’s words and when he was done, Hiempsal suddenly spoke up, pointing at the mock-up.

  “He says he doesn’t understand why the Arabs don’t attack the road at the same time in the south and in the north,” Crispus explained. “He says that we must choose which part to defend; the northern or southern section. We do not have the manpower to do both.”

  Fergus bit his lip. Then he glanced up at Hiempsal, who was watching him in eager anticipation. The change in Hiempsal’s attitude since Fergus had erected the funeral altar to the executed mutineers, had been marked and noticeable. The resentment had eased and instead, the man seemed to have become more engaged and eager to lead.

  “I don’t know why they are not launching multiple attacks at the same time. Maybe they too, do not have the manpower. But our responsibility is to protect the whole road,” Fergus replied, “We cannot abandon any merchants to their fate. We must do our best for all of them. That means responding to threats in the north and in the south.”

  Hiempsal looked disappointed as Crispus translated but, no sooner had Crispus fallen silent, when another Numidian officer spoke up.

  “So, what do we Sir?” Crispus translated in a weary voice.

  Fergus did not immediately reply and his eyes remained fixed on the mock up. It was a difficult situation. He did not have the man-power to be effective everywhere. Choices would need to be made and risks taken.

  “All right, listen up all of you,” he said at last, straightening up and looking around at his officers, “All training, leave and rest days are cancelled from today for the foreseeable future. We will split the cohort into three sections. Hiempsal, I am giving you temporary command of five squadrons. You will patrol the northern sector of the road. I want you to show these Arabs that you know they are there and that we are not afraid of them. But you are only to engage them if they attack you or the trade caravans. Under no circumstances are you to allow them to lure you out into the desert. Tell him to dip his head if he has understood, Crispus.”

  Dutifully Crispus translated and as he did, Hiempsal seemed to glow with pride. Hastily he dipped his head at Fergus, indicating that he had understood his orders.

  “A second division also comprising five squadrons will be on permanent patrol to the south,” Fergus said, “same orders. The rest of us will remain here at the fort to act as a reserve.” Fergus paused, as his eyes glided across the faces of his officers. “Communications are going to be vital,” he snapped in a stern voice. “If you find yourself under attack try and make smoke. It can be seen for miles and it will alert us that something is wrong. If you find that the enemy outnumbers you then try and pin them down and send a rider to me for reinforcements. We will come to your aid. Make no mistake. All right, any questions?”

  As Crispus finished translating the room fell silent. There were no questions.

/>   “The Seventh Cavalry is going to be the best cohort in the army,” Fergus said, breaking the silence, his voice and eyes filled with determination. “And we are going to prove it by keeping this road open for traffic. Long live the Seventh Cavalry.”