Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  At last, in the distance a single trumpet rang out, announcing the arrival of the king and the low murmur amongst the officers ceased, as all turned to peer down the narrow lane formed by the legionaries. Coming towards them was a single figure on foot, his head held up high and his eyes fixed on Trajan. The man was clothed in a simple mud-spattered riding cloak and he was wearing a fine crown on his head. The precious stones set into the crown sparkled and gleamed in the sunlight. And, as he caught sight of Parthamasiris, Fergus lowered his eyes. The order to execute the king, after he had surrendered was shameful and deeply dishonourable and he was not going to take any pleasure in doing it. But he had his orders and he could not disobey them. The king would die just as Trajan had ordered.

  Parthamasiris came to a halt before Trajan and for a moment the two men stared at each other in silence. With a resigned look, Fergus lifted his head and gazed across at the historic confrontation. It was hardly a meeting of equals. Sitting upon his throne with the proud gleaming eagles of Rome to back him up, was the ruler of the largest and most powerful empire in the world, and standing before him was a vanquished and humbled king - a man who had not even managed to put up a fight to halt the Roman invasion. It was true Fergus thought. Parthamasiris had surrendered almost immediately and without a fight. Glancing around at the Roman officers, Fergus could see the contempt written on their faces. The rumour going around the camp was that the Armenian king had come to Trajan hoping, that if he showed his loyalty to Rome, Trajan would in return, confirm him as king of Armenia. Fergus bit his lip as he studied the man he was going to have to kill. He had told no one about Quietus’s orders. In front of Trajan, Parthamasiris said something that Fergus could not hear and then slowly raised his hands to his head, took off his crown and laid it down on the ground in front of Trajan. Around Fergus the officers went very still.

  Sitting on his throne, Trajan remained silent as he looked down at the Armenian crown lying at his feet. Fergus sighed. It was all a cruel public spectacle and show. During the preceding days, he’d heard his fellow officers discussing what would happen if the Armenian king laid his crown before Trajan’s feet. Most seemed to think that Trajan would confirm Parthamasiris as his vassal king by picking up his crown and placing it back on his head, like Nero had done in his time. Only a very few knew the truth, that Parthamasiris was a “dead man walking.” As the seconds ticked by and the silence lengthened and Trajan did not move, Fergus could see the consternation growing on the Armenian king’s face. Then slowly Trajan rose to his feet.

  “I hereby proclaim,” Trajan cried out in a loud voice, “that Armenia is now a province of the Roman empire. Its independence has ended and all Armenians shall from this day forwards be loyal subjects of Rome.”

  In front of Trajan, Parthamasiris staggered backwards, as if he had been struck by something, and a wail of protest erupted from his mouth, but Trajan was no longer paying him any attention. Instead he had turned towards the legionaries standing stiffly to attention in their massed, armoured ranks.

  “Armenia capta,” Trajan cried, raising his fist triumphantly in the air.

  “Armenia capta, Armenia capta,” three thousand voices bellowed in a triumphant roar and the great cry was followed by another. “Trajan imperator. Trajan imperator! Trajan imperator!”

  Basking in the glory of the moment, as his soldiers hailed him as emperor and conqueror, Trajan turned and seemed to speak a few words to the forlorn, defeated figure standing before him. Suddenly Fergus stirred. It was time. Grimly and without another glance at the victorious emperor and his defeated foe, Fergus turned and moved away through the crowds towards the spot where Hiempsal and his thirty handpicked Numidian horsemen were waiting for him with their horses,’ ready to ride.

  * * *

  It was evening but still light, when Fergus saw Parthamasiris, without his richly decorated crown, riding towards him accompanied by a single slave and a squad of praetorians. For over an hour he and his men had been waiting at the designated spot on the edge of the vast Roman encampment. The praetorian decurion rode up to Fergus, saluted and, in full view of Parthamasiris he handed Fergus a tightly rolled papyrus scroll.

  “Your orders are to escort this man back to the city of Artaxata,” the praetorian officer snapped. “Once you get there you are to read this statement to the Armenian court. Good luck Sir.”

  And with that the decurion saluted once more and then, crying out to his men he turned his horse around and galloped away back towards the Roman camp. Fergus looked down at the scroll in his hand. It carried Trajan’s personal seal. Then he looked up at Parthamasiris. The Armenian king was young, about the same age as himself and he looked mightily depressed and confused.

  “Do you speak Latin?” Fergus said sharply as he gazed at the Armenian.

  “I do,” Parthamasiris said in a quiet hesitant voice, “but I do not want to talk to you. Let’s go. I do not wish to remain here for one moment longer. Your emperor has made me look like a fool.”

  Fergus did not reply. Instead he nodded stiffly and wheeled his horse around.

  “I mean no offense to you Roman,” Parthamasiris said hastily. “I am the rightful king of Armenia but not all my subjects like me. I have rivals to my throne. Some actively want to kill me so I am grateful for the escort that you provide me. That was the reason why I was late. I was forced to take the long road to avoid being attacked by my enemies. I explained that to your emperor but he didn’t seem to care.”

  With his head turned away from the Armenian king, Fergus rolled his eyes. Whatever he thought harshly.

  “Let’s go,” he muttered in a subdued voice.

  Trotting along at the head of his troop with the king and his slave following directly behind him, Fergus gazed up at the mountain peaks that surrounded the high plateau. This was a shit assignment, a real fucker, nothing short of plain, cold-blooded murder and he really didn’t like it; but shit happened. Whilst he’d been waiting for Parthamasiris to show up, Fergus had resolved that he would do the deed himself. It would be easy to delegate the killing to one of his men, but that would not be right. This was something that only he could do. It was his responsibility. And now there was a slave too. No witnesses and no complications Quietus had told him. Silently Fergus groaned.

  When they had been riding for half an hour and the Roman camp was well out of sight, Fergus raised his fist in the air and the small group of horsemen came to a slow clattering halt. They were in the middle of a forest and around him all seemed peaceful and quiet. There was no one about. It was a good enough spot as any. Grimly Fergus looked up at the sky. There was maybe another hour before it went dark.

  “We’ll make camp here and set out again at dawn,” Fergus said, half turning towards Parthamasiris and avoiding his gaze.

  And without waiting for an answer he dismounted and caught hold of the reigns of the Armenian king’s horse. Without protesting, Parthamasiris dismounted and stretched his arms as Fergus gestured for one of his Numidians to lead the horse away. Then, as the Numidians dismounted Fergus made eye contact, with Hiempsal, and inclined his head towards the slave. Parthamasiris had his back turned to Fergus and was still stretching his arms and legs, oblivious to what was about to happen. With a resolute grunt Fergus came up swiftly behind the Armenian king, yanked his pugio, army knife from his belt and was about to grasp hold of the man’s hair, when to his surprise Parthamasiris turned around. Seeing the knife and the intent in Fergus’s eyes, the Armenian king cried out in alarm and stumbled backwards, tripping over a tree trunk and landing on his back. Instantly Fergus was on top of him his knife ready to slice open the man’s throat.

  “No, no,” Parthamasiris wailed, his face ashen, his eyes bulging in their sockets, “Please I don’t want to die. Please, mercy, mercy.”

  Fergus hissed as his knife hovered over the man’s exposed throat and, as he hesitated, from behind him he heard a frantic struggle that abruptly ended in a strangled cry and the crash of a body onto the fo
rest floor. Snatching a glance over his shoulder, Fergus saw that Hiempsal had just killed the slave.

  “Mercy,” Parthamasiris cried out, as his whole-body shook and trembled. “I will tell you something important, if you let me live Roman. Something very important. Something that Rome will want to know about. I know secrets. I have information. Please, do not kill me.”

  Fergus gazed down at the doomed man. Why was the king still alive? Why had he not finished him off?

  Whether it was something in Fergus’s eyes or something else, Parthamasiris suddenly broke down in panic.

  “The Parthians have secret plans to set the whole of the Roman east alight with rebellion and insurrection,” the Armenian king cried out. “They are planning to encourage rebellion and revolts across every province from Cyrenaica through Egypt, Cyprus, Syria to the provinces of Asia, Cilicia and Cappadocia. Their agents are everywhere and are infiltrating all the great cities. They have and are making contact with rebel groups, encouraging them to rise up. The Parthians have brought gold with them to fund the rebellions. They are serious. They are talking to every group hostile to Rome. They are especially trying to convince the Jewish communities to rise against Trajan. The Jews hate Rome for the destruction of their great temple. Please I beg you. Spare my life. A storm is coming and your emperor is unaware. I have been honest with you.”

  Fergus was staring down at the Armenian king in surprise. He had not expected to be confronted with this kind of news. But, as he looked down at the pleading, desperate man lying on the ground Fergus knew he had no choice.

  “I am sorry,” he muttered, “I have my orders. Go to the next world and be at peace,” and with that, Fergus swiftly cut the kings throat, ending him.

  As Fergus rose unsteadily to his feet and gazed down at the dead king he sighed. Turning to Hiempsal, he gestured for the Numidians to load the two corpses onto the horses. Quietus would want to see proof that the king was dead. And, as he watched his men sling the bodies across the horses, Fergus frowned. In the desert oasis, he’d seen Parthians with camels loaded with wooden boxes. Could they be some of the agents that the Armenian king was referring to? If what Parthamasiris had said was true, then this was significant and important news and it seemed he was the only one who knew about it.

  Taking a deep breath, Fergus strode back to his horse and pulled the papyrus scroll that the praetorian had given him from his saddlebag. Breaking the seal, he hastily unrolled the scroll and grunted. In his hands, he was holding a completely blank piece of paper.

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Task Force Red’s Counter Insurgency Campaign

  “Where the hell is everyone?” Fergus bellowed, as he sat on his horse gazing around at the small abandoned Armenian village. Around him the small primitive, looking peasant huts were empty and across the high, arid and stony mountain plateau, there was no sign of any flocks of sheep and cattle. At his side, sitting on his horse and holding up the proud banner of the Seventh Ala of Numidian’s, Crispus stirred as he turned to gaze at the Armenian guide.

  “I don’t know my lord,” the Armenian guide stammered in accented Latin, as he turned to look around at the huts with a resigned and disappointed expression. “They must have seen us coming and fled.”

  “I can see that. Where would they go?” Fergus snapped in an annoyed voice as he gazed around. His cheeks were unshaven and he looked tired, with dark wrinkles around his eyes, and his armour and tunic were stained with dust and dirt after ten continuous days of sleeping rough. It was afternoon and the four-hundred-odd mounted troopers of his ala were spread out across the abandoned village and the fields beyond, idly poking around inside the empty and silent huts.

  “Into the mountains my lord,” the Armenian guide replied raising his hand and pointing at the towering, snow-clad peaks that rose some twelve thousand feet. “That’s what my people do when they feel threatened.”

  Fergus growled in frustration as he turned to stare up at the forest-covered mountains. It was a clear July day and, to the east a few miles away, he could see the shimmering and beautiful waters of Lake Van. The mountains however, dominated the rugged and beautiful scenery; their green forests covering them like a cloak, but despite the warm July, weather the barren, high peaks remained firmly covered in snow.

  “Shit,” Fergus swore in an annoyed voice, “first they ambush us back in the gorge and now they run away. Fucking cowards.”

  “The ambush must have been meant to delay us Sir,” Crispus replied. “It would have given them the time to alert the village.”

  Fergus nodded as he turned to gaze about the settlement. “They even had time to take all their animals with them,” he said sourly. “Quietus will not be pleased. Is it just me or do you have the feeling that we are being watched?”

  “Yes,” Crispus said with a nod, as he glanced up at the forested mountain slopes, “I am sure that they are watching us Sir. These mountains have eyes. What shall we do?”

  Fergus bit his lip in frustration. It had been nearly a month now since Quietus and Task Force Red had arrived in the area around Lake Van in South Eastern Armenia. The task force of twenty-thousand men had been assigned the pacification of the Mardi, an Armenian tribe, who lived around the huge Lake and who had refused to recognise the Roman annexation of Armenia. But if the task force had been expecting an easy, bloodless victory, they seemed to have underestimated the resolve of the locals. Instead of standing and fighting the invaders, the Mardi had retreated into their mountain strongholds and forests from where they had started to ambush Roman troops and launch hit-and-run raids on the Roman lines of communication and supply. This was like no war he had ever experienced before, Fergus thought, and the insurgency had left him and his men bewildered and frustrated. His orders had been to conduct a wide-ranging sweep through the foothills and rough terrain to the south and east of Lake Van. “Kill any insurgents you come across, take their cattle and burn their villages” had been the tribune’s last words to him before he had set out. Terror would be met with counter-terror until the Mardi acknowledged the supremacy of Rome. That was the strategy and it was not working. He’d received very little intelligence on the enemy movements and camps and the few Mardi warriors whom they had spotted, had swiftly melted away into the steep mountain forests. Fearing ambush, Fergus had declined to follow them.

  “Burn the houses and destroy any crops that they have planted,” Fergus said sternly. “They may have fled for now, but I want them to know that there are consequences in defying us.”

  “Yes Sir,” Crispus said, and a moment later the standard bearer bellowed out the order to the Numidian troopers.

  “My lord,” the Armenian guide protested, “is this really necessary? The Mardi will not see you as friends if you destroy their homes and crops.”

  “I am not here to make friends with them,” Fergus snapped. “I have my orders. Most of your countrymen have accepted Roman rule. Why can the Mardi not do the same?”

  “Apologies my lord,” the Armenian guide said hastily, as he humbly lowered his gaze to the ground. “You are right of course, but the Mardi see matters differently.”

  “How so?” Fergus said, as he watched his men setting the first of the peasant huts on fire.

  “They are different,” the Armenian replied with a deep sigh, “because they live in such proximity to the Parthians, my lord.” Turning to look towards the south, the Armenian pointed at a chain of mountains on the horizon. “Beyond those mountains lie the great cities of Nisibis, Edessa and Singara and the plains of Mesopotamia and the Parthian empire. The Mardi, my lord, fight and resist because they are expecting the Parthians to come to their aid. That is what motivates them. This is not the first time Rome has conquered their land, only to be eventually driven out by the Parthians. The Mardi have not forgotten. They think they can win.”

  Fergus said nothing as he turned to gaze towards the south. After holding court at Elegeia, Trajan had ordered the army to split up into independent task forces and spread ou
t across Armenia. The newly-conquered land was to be fully Romanised and turned into a law-abiding and loyal province of the Roman empire. Since Task Force Red had arrived in the area around Lake Van, there had been no sign of Parthian interference, but no doubt their spies were watching. Fergus stirred. His orders from HQ in the event of contact with Parthian troops was to avoid battle, withdraw and report back. And as he gazed at the distant mountain range Fergus suddenly thought about Parthamasiris, the unfortunate Armenian king who he had killed on Quietus’s orders. Quietus had burned the king’s body and had spread the rumour around the camp that the king had been killed whilst trying to escape. No one must know what had really happened Quietus had said. There was no way that Trajan could allow Parthamasiris to remain alive, Quietus had explained. But equally the Armenians must not be given a martyr to mourn and a cause to hate Rome. It had been unpleasant business but he had told no one, not even Quietus about what the King had revealed to him as he lay begging for his life.

  Around him the Numidians were shouting to each other, as the crackle and roar of the flames engulfing the Armenian huts grew, and one by one, plumes of black smoke began to rise into the clear summer air.