“Once we are done here,” Fergus said turning to Crispus, “we will head back to HQ. We are running low on provisions and the tribune will be expecting a report. But we will go back by a different route. I don’t want to be ambushed again in that gorge. Make sure the men are alert.”
* * *
“That’s all Sir,” Fergus said, as he stood stiffly to attention and finished his report. He looked tired. His face and shortly-cut red hair were covered in dust and streaked with sweat and his white focale, neck scarf was stained with mud. In front of him, slouched on his chair behind a desk, a young tribune was taking notes. Outside through the gap in the army tent’s canvas, the Roman army marching camp was a hive of activity and Fergus could hear hammering and the noise of men’s voices and the braying of mules. But inside the tent there was only silence. For a moment, the senior officer said nothing as he looked down at his scribbles. Then the young aristocrat laid down his iron stylus, pen and looked up at Fergus with a disappointed expression.
“Not a very successful operation was it prefect,” the young tribune said.
“No Sir,” Fergus replied, staring into space, “The enemy run and hide as we approach. They are as difficult to engage, like catching fish with one’s bare hands.”
“Maybe you should try harder next time,” the tribune snapped. “There is a lot of work to be done and we do not have unlimited amounts of time. I will pass your report on to Quietus. He will expect you to do better next time. See to it that your men and horses are rested and ready to ride again at short notice. And prefect,” the tribune growled - “Quietus has called a conference for later today; all commanders are to be present. Make sure you are there. Dismissed.”
What a rear echelon mother fucker Fergus thought, as he saluted and left the command post. The young tribune came from a well-to-do family and was on a completely different career path to himself. After a year’s service as a tribune the young aristocrat could expect to be appointed to another plum job in the Roman military and administrative hierarchy and all because the man had been born into a wealthy and well-connected family. In those circles experience counted for little and connections were everything. There would be no slow and hard slog up the career ladder for him, Fergus thought sourly; no dangerous counter-insurgency sweeps through the mountains; no danger of sudden death or capture. All the tribune had to do was make sure that he satisfied Quietus and kept his reputation intact.
As Fergus approached the section of the Roman marching camp where his men were billeted, Crispus caught sight of him and hurried towards him, accompanied by Hiempsal. Both officers looked exhausted and the strain of their ten-day long sweep through the mountains was showing.
“See to it that the men and horses are rested and provisioned,” Fergus said, “They want us to be ready to ride again shortly. We will receive our new orders soon. Looks like it’s going to be the same shit as before.”
“Sir,” Crispus said hastily, whilst at his side Hiempsal simply nodded.
Wearily Fergus rubbed his eyes as he turned to gaze at the Numidians. The men had taken to partially shaving the hair from the front of their heads and now half-bald and with the backs of their heads covered in their long dark hair, they looked a most fierce-some and barbaric sight. It was the Berber tradition, Crispus had explained, to partially shave their heads when they went to war.
“How is morale amongst the men?” Fergus asked.
“Good Sir,” Hiempsal said in heavily accented Latin, as he struggled to find the right words. “But, they want, fight. They want fight enemy. Armenians, cowards, run, all time, run away.”
Despite his fatigue Fergus grinned at Hiempsal’s attempt to speak Latin. Ever since he had promoted Hiempsal to be his deputy and much to Crispus’s amusement, the Numidian had been trying to learn to speak Latin.
“Good man,” Fergus said, slapping Hiempsal on the shoulder. “I will try and find some extra wine rations for the men,” Fergus said, in a tired sounding voice. “The men deserve a drink tonight. Quietus has called a conference for later today at his command post. If you need me that is where I shall be.”
“Very good Sir,” Crispus replied.
* * *
There had to be nearly a hundred senior officers packed into the large tent, Fergus thought, as he pushed his way through the crowd. In front of him standing on a small wooden podium, General Quietus, commander of Task Force Red was watching his men with a calm and stern expression.
“Silence,” a deep voice suddenly boomed and inside the tent the murmur abruptly ceased.
“Men,” Quietus called out, his eyes sweeping across the tent, “I have called you all here today because there is going to be a change of strategy. Now, as all of you know, we have been given the task of subduing the Mardi around Lake Van. Ours is the most difficult of tasks. Task Force green are up at the Caspian Gates guarding the mountain passes against the Alani, Task Force Blue are in the Caucasus mountains at Derbent enrolling the Iberians and Albanians as client states and Emperor Trajan is encamped around Artaxata organising the new province of Armenia. None of them face any serious opposition. However, as we know, the Mardi are proving to be difficult. They know the land better than we do and so they run and hide and lob arrows and spears at us from behind trees and rocks. That’s a coward’s way of fighting but it is effective and our current methods of dealing with them are not working.”
Quietus remained silent as he allowed his words to sink in. “So, we are going to have to change strategy,” he called out at last. “From now on we are going to do things differently. Firstly, we are going to break the link between the Mardi villages and the insurgents. The villagers supply the enemy war bands with recruits, food and shelter. This must stop. To break the support that the insurgents receive, we are going to assign a company of legionaries to each village. Each detachment of legionaries will be tasked with building a small fort and guarding their village and preventing the villagers from contacting and helping the enemy. We must persuade the Mardi that it is no longer in their interests to fight us. For those remote settlements in high and inaccessible places we shall force the whole population to abandon their homes and resettle them in new villages, close to the shores of Lake Van, where we can keep a better eye on them. Secondly, any Armenian caught helping the insurgents will be executed and collective punishment will be applied to their family. Thirdly, our Numidian and Mauritanian cavalry units will continue to conduct sweeps and strike operations against the insurgents, hunting them down in the mountains and forests. No quarter shall be given to any man who does not surrender. Those who do surrender shall be enslaved and the proceeds shared equally amongst officers and men of the unit concerned. Fourthly, a significant reward will be given to those locals who provide us with credible and accurate intelligence on the enemy movements and camps. Just a few days ago, we learnt the name of the man who is leading these insurgents. His name is Zhirayr. That is all we know about him. But as of today, I will reward the man who captures Zhirayr dead or alive, with a bonus of one thousand denarii. Make sure that your men are informed of the reward.”
Quietus paused as he looked around the silent tent.
“I know it is tough out there,” Quietus continued in a stern voice, “I am not immune to what you all have to face but we are the best in the whole army, and I can assure you that the despatches being sent back to Rome, carry nothing but praise for us. The Roman people are watching us. They are following our exploits closely. Think about that. And think about the day when you come home to a hero’s welcome and tell your families about the time when you fought with Task Force Red under Quietus in the faraway mountains of Armenia.”
Chapter Twenty-Three – Hunting the Enemy
Fergus to his Galena, I write to you dearest wife to tell you that I am well. We have been high up in the mountains for nearly a month now, hunting insurgents. It has been a long time since I last saw the inside of a proper army camp or slept in a tent. The scenery up here is beautiful but our wo
rk is grim, relentless and hard. We are surrounded by hostile peoples who do not want us here and we have taken casualties. But we have our orders. I cannot tell you where I am, in case this letter falls into the wrong hands but you should know that I think about you and our girls every day. I hope they are enjoying the book of Greek myths that I bought in Antioch. It is hard to remain honourable up here in the mountains. This is a war the likes of which I have never experienced before. It is cruel beyond description and it brings out the worst in us. A few days ago, we burned a man and his family to death in their home because they refused to surrender. Their dying screams haunt my sleep but we must harden ourselves. The war up here, if you can call it war, is brutal and we have all seen what the enemy does to captured Roman soldiers. It is horrible. I wish I could tell you when I will be coming home to you and the girls but I cannot. There are rumours that we shall soon descend from the mountains and attack the Parthian controlled cities of Nisibis and Singara. Winter will not stop us. Trajan wants to conquer all. Please dearest, give our girls a kiss for me and tell them that their father is thinking about them. When you read to them you should know that I am reading with you. Knowing that you and the girls are safe, gives me the strength to keep going…
With a sigh Fergus paused and looked up from writing the letter, his stylus hovering over the papyrus scroll. What would he give to run his fingers through his wife’s hair; to touch her lips and hear his daughters’ laughter? Four months had passed since he had last seen them. It was noon and he was sitting on a rock in a boulder-strewn clearing in a mountain forest. Around him, the four-hundred and fifty men of his small battle group were spread out in small groups, resting, as they awaited his orders. Amongst them the four squads of legionaries clad in their full body armour and wearing their distinctive infantry helmets with broad neck guards, looked out of place amongst the groups of Numidians. It had been his idea to insist on having the legionaries and the ten Syrian archers attached to his command. Their unique skills would make his battle group more versatile and flexible. He had not expected that his request would be granted, but someone up the chain of command seemed to have agreed and, to his surprise the troops had been assigned to him. He’d mounted the thirty legionaries and ten Syrian archers onto horses, so that they could keep up with his Numidians and not impede their mobility.
It was a stiflingly hot day and high above them, in the perfect blue August sky, not a cloud could be seen. Slowly Fergus focussed his attention on the letter and then resolutely crossed out the sentence containing the mention of the cities of Singara and Nisibis. The army censors who would need to see the letter before it was posted, would not like the mention of the two cities in case it compromised the upcoming campaign.
He was about to write another sentence when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed Hiempsal hastening towards him.
“Sir,” his Numidian deputy called out, “scouts, return.”
Quickly Fergus stuffed the unfinished letter into his tunic and, grabbing his helmet, he swung his legs off the rock and jumped down onto the ground.
“Good, where are they?” he said.
It took Hiempsal a few moments to understand what his commander wanted, but when realisation came to him, he quickly pointed in the direction of the cohort’s baggage train.
“Come,” Hiempsal said awkwardly, beckoning for Fergus to follow him.
The Armenians were clothed in simple, local woollen tunics with hoods and they were armed with knives and slings. They looked just like many of the locals who he had encountered throughout the past two months. Fergus placed his helmet on his head as he and Hiempsal approached them. The three men were waiting for him in tense silence, standing beside the cohort’s mules which were laden with the unit’s food and supplies and guarded by a few suspicious-looking Numidians. Ever since Quietus had changed strategy the number of Armenian’s willing to help the task force had increased and the intelligence picture had improved dramatically.
“Well,” Fergus growled, as he fixed his gaze on the Armenian scouts.
“We found them,” one of the Armenian’s replied, “about a hundred men, two or three hours walk from here. They are holed up in a cave. A solitary guard, no horses. They are the band we have been hunting. We are certain.”
Fergus remained silent as he digested the news. Then he nodded. “Well done,” he said. “Are you willing to lead us to their hiding place?”
The Armenian scouts were silent as they glanced at each other. Then one of them nodded.
“We will lead you to the cave,” the man said.
“Good,” Fergus snapped before turning to Hiempsal. “We attack,” he said slowly. “Prepare the men.”
Pausing to make certain that Hiempsal had understood, Fergus smiled as he saw the recognition and excitement light up in his deputy’s eyes. The news, that after weeks of patient stalking and pursuit, the cohort had finally caught up with their foe, seemed to act as a tonic and hastily Hiempsal hurried away towards his men. Fergus watched him go and sighed. His Numidians might be barbarians in many ways, but he could not deny a growing fondness for his hardy, simple horsemen. They were not the best soldiers he had fought with, but their strong sense of loyalty and simple trust in him was a humbling and endearing quality.
* * *
Fergus raised his fist in the air and behind him, the column of mounted Numidians, Syrian archers and legionaries came to a slow and silent halt. Ahead of him, through the trees the three Armenian scouts were hurrying back towards him.
“One hundred yards ahead,” one of the scouts panted, as he came up to Fergus. “There is a clearing in the forest. We spotted one guard but he is asleep. Seems the rest have taken shelter in the cave.”
“Are you sure it is them?” Fergus snapped.
“Yes,” the Armenian replied with a nod. “They are the men we have been hunting.”
For a moment Fergus did not move and around him the forest remained silent. Then twisting round on his horse, he silently beckoned for Crispus to approach.
“The Numidians will dismount and spread out in a single line. Get one squadron to stay back and take care of the horses. The rest will advance towards the edge of the clearing, but will stay within the cover of the trees. I don’t want to expose us to arrows or missiles,” Fergus said softly and precisely. “Have the Syrian archers take up position around the cave-mouth in pairs. Anything that moves inside is a legitimate target. But they are not to shoot before they hear my order to attack.”
“Attack a cave Sir,” Crispus frowned. “How?”
“I have done it before in Britannia,” Fergus replied, as he glanced down the line of silent troopers, who were watching him with eager anticipation.
As the Numidians dismounted and began to silently spread out across the forest floor, Fergus did the same and handed his horse over to a Numidian. Then, cautiously he began to follow the Armenian scouts, as they slunk through the trees and passed moss-covered boulders. After a short while he paused and crouched. Through the trees and undergrowth ahead of him, he could make out a clearing and beyond it, a jagged rock face - several hundred feet high, towered up into the air. A dark hole in the rock announced the start of a cave. And at the cave entrance, a solitary Armenian was sitting cross-legged on the ground, his head resting against a rock, oblivious to the approaching danger. Silently Fergus raised his fist in the air and then, without looking round, he beckoned Crispus and Hiempsal to join him. As the two officers crouched beside him, their eyes fixed on the cave entrance, Fergus turned to the Armenian scouts who had led him to the cave.
“There are no other ways of escape from the cave?” Fergus asked fixing the scouts with a questioning look. “This is the only entrance?”
One of the Armenians shrugged. “I have not been inside the cave,” the man said softly. “But it seems unlikely that there is another way out. If there was, would their guard be sitting outside in plain view?”
Cautiously Fergus looked up at the sky through the tree cove
r. The day was getting on, but there was still enough time. Turning his attention back to the cave, Fergus was silent for a moment and, as he gazed at the cave, he was suddenly back in Britannia, his legionary squad staked out, watching a cave in the northern hills, hoping to catch the British fugitive leader Arvirargus. How long ago had that been? How far away? Blinking rapidly, Fergus banished the thoughts from his mind. This was no time for day dreaming. He had a job to do. Men were about to die because of decisions he made.
“Crispus,” Fergus said quietly, as he crouched on the forest floor, his eyes on the lone unsuspecting sentry. “I want two squadrons to take up position on either side of that cave entrance, ready to kill anyone who comes out. Once they are in position, Hiempsal will take one squadron, seize the sentry and attack the cave entrance. He is to throw his javelins into the cave but not to go inside. I want to avoid taking unnecessary casualties. Hiempsal is to try and lure the enemy out, into the open where we can riddle them from the flank and I want that sentry brought to me alive. Is that clear?”
“Clear Sir,” Crispus said quietly, as he turned to Hiempsal and started to translate Fergus’s orders.
Tensely Fergus wiped the sweat from his forehead as he waited for his men to get into position. Around him, the forest seemed to be unnaturally quiet as if all the animals had somehow sensed what was coming. Then after what seemed an age, he caught sight of Crispus slinking towards him through the trees.
“We’re in position Sir,” Crispus said in a tight voice as he crouched down beside Fergus.
Fergus said nothing as he turned in the direction of his deputy and caught Hiempsal watching him with tense excitement. Giving Hiempsal a little nod, Fergus watched as his deputy silently rose to his feet and went charging out into the clearing, his javelin raised into a throwing position. He was closely followed by thirty men, their spears raised in a similar manner. The solitary Armenian sentry stood no chance. Hiempsal and two others were on him before he knew what was happening, but they were not fast enough to stop the man from yelling out a warning. As the sentry’s cry rent the peaceful quiet of the afternoon, the Numidians broke into a loud roar as they stormed up to the dark, cave mouth. Within seconds a barrage of javelins vanished into the cave and the first barrage was swiftly followed by a second. It was impossible to see if they had struck their targets but, as the assault party flung his last javelin into the cave, howls and cries of alarm rose from within the cavern.
Armenia Capta Page 23