Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  “Looks like our scouts are returning Sir,” the standard bearer called out, as he pointed at a little cloud of dust that had been kicked up at the entrance to the mountain pass.

  Fergus turned to peer at the small cloud of dust and suddenly, he caught sight of a few figures on horseback racing towards him. There was something troubling about the way in which the horsemen were galloping towards him.

  “Something is wrong,” Fergus said suddenly.

  Behind him, his staff said nothing, as all eyes remained fixed on the swiftly approaching Numidians.

  Raising his fist in the air, Fergus brought the long column to a halt, as he awaited the riders who were now only a hundred paces away.

  “Well. What’s going on?” Fergus called out, as he recognised Crispus amongst the cavalry scouts, clutching the banner of the Seventh Cavalry.

  “Parthians,” Crispus cried out in an alarmed voice, as he hastily rode up to Fergus. “Enemy cavalry Sir. Luckily, we spotted them coming down the pass towards us. They are about two miles away and closing.”

  “Parthians,” Fergus exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock. “Did they see you?”

  “Difficult to say Sir, but I think so. There was not much time to observe them but it’s a mixed cavalry force,” Crispus gasped, with flushed cheeks. “Mainly horse archers but also heavily-armoured cataphracts. I reckon between five hundred and a thousand men. But it could be more. I just don’t know.”

  Fergus swore softly to himself. Parthian horse archers and cataphracts were amongst the most feared opponents of the officers he’d spoken to. Their mobility and skill was a huge and deadly threat.

  “What shall we do Sir?” the standard bearer snapped, in a tense voice and, as the man spoke, Fergus was suddenly aware of all eyes turning towards him.

  Hastily he turned to look around at the terrain. To his left, the open and steep, arid looking hill-sides across the shallow river provided little protection even if he could get all his men and transport across the river in time. But to the right, a couple of hundred yards away, he noticed a boulder-strewn hill that ended in a ruined Armenian hut and a small clump of trees. There was no time to dick around and dither. He had to get his men off the exposed flat terrain and fast.

  “Get the men up on the summit of that hill,” he cried, pointing at the ruin and the trees. “We will form a hollow square, three ranks deep. Place the baggage train and the artillery inside the square. Our archers and slingers will form up behind the heavy infantry. Do it now. Move, move!”

  And as he cried out his orders the two senior cohort centurions hastily wheeled their horses around and went galloping away down the column.

  “Crispus,” Fergus said in an urgent voice, as he quickly turned to the standard bearer of the Seventh Cavalry, “Tell Hiempsal to take the Seventh up towards the entrance to the pass. Tell him that he is to remain out in the open, but that he is not engage the enemy horse. Those horse-archers and cataphracts will butcher our men if they get close enough. Let them know we are here, but he is not to engage. Make that clear Crispus. He is not to engage the enemy. I want him to goad the Parthians into attacking us on that hill. Bring them within range. Once they take the bait and attack, he is to fall back on our position up on that hill. Use your mobility and speed to stay out of range of those Parthian arrows, but do not let yourself become isolated.”

  “What are you planning to do Sir?” Crispus said hastily, as he stared at Fergus.

  “I am going to make those fuckers dance for us,” Fergus said harshly. “Watch yourself Crispus. Now go! I shall see you later.”

  * * *

  The hill was not very steep or big but it would have to do, Fergus thought, for there was no time to find a better position. Calmly trying to master his nerves, he sat on his horse beside the Armenian ruin and observed his legionaries, as the men rushed up to take their positions in the rapidly-forming infantry square. The urgent shouts of the officers, the clink and rattle of equipment, the braying of mules and the groan and creak of the wagons, as they were hauled up the slope, filled the air. Apart from the ruin and the clump of trees, the open, uneven summit was barely large enough to accommodate all his men, wagons and mules. And instead of a perfect square formation, his position was beginning to resemble more a misshapen triangle, as the legionaries were forced to follow the contours of the hill. In the direction of the Bitlis pass, across the open and rolling country, there was no sign of the Numidians or the enemy. But if the Parthians took the bait, they would be here soon enough. The country leading up to the pass looked superb for horses. Ahead of him, and down the slope facing the most likely direction from which the enemy would appear, the legionaries had formed three, densely packed lines, around seventy-five yards long. The soldiers were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with their shields and throwing spears pointed outwards, forming a solid wall that ran along the slope of the hill. If he’d had more time Fergus thought, it would have been expedient to fortify their position further with sharpened wooden stakes, but there was no time.

  Higher up the slope, the squads of Syrian archers and slingers were hastily taking up their positions as their officers hollered and yelled at them to get into formation. Anxiously, Fergus turned to look as his missile troops. The two hundred Syrians, clad in their distinctive pointy helmets and auxiliary chain-mail armour, with their quivers slung over their backs, were clutching their powerful composite bows; arrows notched and aimed at the open rolling country to the south. They were said to be the best bowmen in the empire. And he was going to need them today. At their side, the hundred or so unarmoured slingers, clad in their simple, white tunics, with their satchels full of lead bullets, resting against their thighs, were standing about in groups, their slings dangling at their sides. And as he stared at the slingers, Fergus swore softly to himself. How far could a trained slinger throw his bullet? He should have inquired before he’d set off. Now it was too late. The embarrassment of having to ask would reveal to the men that he didn’t know what he was doing. But as he gazed at the slingers, Fergus was suddenly reminded of Petrus back in Britannia. Of course. Petrus was an expert slinger and hunter. What had he said about the slings range? Fergus frowned and then he remembered. Petrus had once told him that it could be anything between two hundred and four hundred yards. That was good. He had positioned the men correctly.

  “Form the artillery up around the ruin and have them ready to move around our flanks. No one shoots until I give the order,” Fergus yelled, as he turned and urgently gestured at the artillerymen, who were dragging the ten carroballista, mobile field artillery pieces towards him. The carroballistae, huge bolt throwers mounted onto carts, looked evil and sinister. The torsion sprung machines, like giant cross-bows, loaded a yard-long heavy bolt that could shoot four hundred yards and punch through any armour. They were impressive but slow. Staring at the artillerymen as they hastened to get their mule drawn carts into position, Fergus suddenly heard a distant trumpet ring out. The noise had come from the entrance to the Bitlis pass. But there was no time however to dwell on it. From the corner of his eye, Fergus caught sight of one of the senior cohort centurions hastening towards him. The officers fine crested helmet gleamed in the fierce sunlight.

  “My men are in position Sir,” the veteran said hastily. “Shall I give the order to spread caltrops along our front Sir. Those little bastards of jagged-iron will do much damage to horses. I would advise we do so, Sir.”

  Fergus gazed at the senior cohort centurion in silence. He had completely forgotten about the caltrops. The small, hard-to-detect anti-cavalry and personnel weapons, composed of four sharp iron spikes, were highly effective against cavalry and camels and were easily strewn across the battlefield in large quantities.

  “Do it,” Fergus growled hastily and as he did, he avoided the veteran’s gaze.

  Without saying another word, the centurion turned and hastened away, shouting at some of his men to follow him. Fergus bit his lip as he watched the officer go. He should ha
ve remembered about the caltrops. Being reminded of it by his subordinate was embarrassing. But embarrassment was the least of his worries. Shrugging it off he turned to inspect the rest of his position. On the flanks and to the rear the Roman legionaries seemed to all be in position, drawn up in their three ranks along the lower slopes of the hill, with the missile troops stationed on higher ground. Fergus took a deep breath. They were ready. The men were in position. There was nothing more he could do. Now all that needed to happen was for the Parthians to take the bait and attack. Sitting on their horses directly behind him, the standard bearer holding up the proud vexillation banner was staring in the direction of the pass. And beside him the cornicen had brought his cylindrical instrument into position so that he could quickly blow into it. The men were silent and calm, as they awaited his orders. Tensely and silently Fergus stirred on his horse and gazed out across the rolling country to the south. Where the fuck were Hiempsal and his men?

  “Sir, my men are in position,” the second senior cohort centurion called out, as he calmly strode up towards where Fergus was sitting on his horse. The veteran’s face was streaked with sweat and dust.

  “Good man,” Fergus replied, turning to the officer, “Make sure that your men do not leave their positions under any circumstances, unless I give a specific command. We are only going to win this fight if we remain in this position and everyone works together. Combined arms will triumph. The heavy infantry will protect and support the missiles troops and vice versa. Do not allow any sections of your men to become isolated. We must maintain our formation.”

  “I know Sir,” the centurion nodded quickly. “You can count on my men. They know what they are doing. We will hold the line.”

  Fergus was about to say something else, when he suddenly heard distant cries and the thud of hundreds of horses’ hooves. The noise was approaching swiftly. Turning hastily to gaze southwards at the open rolling country, he saw that it remained empty and peaceful. Then, like a wave sweeping over a sand bank, large numbers of horsemen appeared, pouring over the crest of the hill, as they raced and galloped towards the Roman position in a wild, disorganised mass; their hooves shaking the earth. Peering intently at the hundreds and hundreds of horsemen, Fergus saw that they were Hiempsal’s men. The Numidians were fleeing.

  “Archers, slingers, prepare,” Fergus roared in a loud voice. Fergus’s orders were swiftly followed by the shouts and cries of the legionary officers, as they yelled and bellowed at their men. And along the slopes of the hill, the second and third ranks of the heavy infantry began to raise their spears into a throwing position. Close by, the artillerymen manning the carroballista with their massive, wicked looking iron-tipped bolts, began to swivel their weapons and carts in the direction of the mass of disorganised and fleeing Numidians.

  “Enemy approaching Sir,” the standard bearer cried out and pointed.

  Fergus felt his heart thumping in his chest, as he suddenly caught sight of the Parthian horse-archers, surging over the distant crest in hot pursuit of the Numidians. There were hundreds and hundreds of them and they were shooting their arrows as they rode.

  “Nimble bastards, those Parthian horse archers Sir,” the standard bearer exclaimed. “They can even shoot at you whilst retreating. They call it the Parthian shot. I was wounded by one of them once.”

  Fergus was staring at the Parthian cavalry. The enemy horse archers were swift and light and seemed to be expert horsemen. Clad in leather kaftan’s, baggy trousers and wearing their distinctive peaked Scythian caps, the Parthians were clutching their bows and shooting as they rode - their quivers were strapped over their backs. And as they pursued the fleeing Numidians, any stragglers were peppered with arrows and mown down with contemptuous ease. Fergus bit his lip. Hiempsal was leading the enemy straight past the Roman position on the hill. Soon they would be in range. Urging his horse forwards, Fergus hastily rode along the back of the lines of stationary legionaries followed by his small staff. The Romans were watching the approaching horde in stoic, disciplined silence. The company centurions, easily identifiable by their magnificent helmets, stood amongst the front ranks, whilst their optio’s stood at the rear of the third line. The optio’s had all deployed their long wooden staffs, ready to push any man who faltered back into line.

  “Prepare to give the signal to shoot those bastards,” Fergus cried, as he turned to his cornicen. And in response the trumpeter raised his trumpet to his lips. Feeling his heart thumping away, Fergus turned to stare at the swiftly approaching mass of horsemen. As the Numidians swept past the base of the hill and curved away to the north, the main part of the Parthian force, spotting the Romans on the hill, came to a ragged halt and reigned in their horses as they turned to inspect the infantry position. But those closest to the Numidians did not and, as they came racing past Fergus shouted at his cornicen and a moment later a long blaring trumpet rang out - it’s noise echoing away into the mountain valleys. Making a twanging noise, the carroballista released, sending their lethal bolts flying straight at the enemy horsemen. The scorpion bolts were swiftly followed by a hail of arrows and a veritable barrage of lead bullets, as the Syrian archers and slingers joined in from their positions higher up the slope. Fergus gasped in awe, as the Parthians rode straight into the missile barrage. The result was instantaneous and spectacular. Dozens of horses went crashing, rolling and tumbling to the ground and men went flying from their mounts in a great screaming, shrieking and chaotic crash. On the slopes of the hill, the Syrians were calmly notching their arrows to their bows as they kept up a swift, disciplined bombardment of the struggling Parthian horsemen. And interspersed between them, the slingers were whirling their slings above their heads with expert confidence, picking out their targets at will and subjecting them to a deadly hail of lead. At the base of the hill, the Parthian pursuit had ended in a screaming bloody massacre. Corpses of men and horses lay strewn across the ground or piled on top of each other in mangled, obscene heaps. A few survivors were fleeing on horseback, whilst others were staggering away on foot, desperate to get away from the hail of Roman missiles. Rider-less horses cantered away towards the Bitlis river and the screams of the wounded and dying rent the noon air.

  “That is a most satisfying sight Sir,” the standard bearer growled, unable to hide his delight at the bloody chaos at the base of the hill. “That will teach the eastern scum to show some respect.”

  Fergus was not paying attention. His eyes were on the main Parthian force, which had managed to come to a halt at the sight of the Roman position on the hill. The horse archers were being reinforced by a steady flow of new arrivals and, amongst the swiftly growing Parthian force, he caught sight of cataphracts. The super-heavy armoured cavalrymen were carrying long lances, like those he’d seen in Dacia, and their strong horses were covered and fitted with armour. There was no cavalry in the world which could stand up to the cataphracts once they charged at you, Crispus had told Fergus. All you could do was flee.

  Up on the crest of the hill, the Roman bolt-throwers were beginning to target the mass of Parthian horsemen, milling about some two hundred to three hundred yards away. And as he stared at the enemy, one of the bolts struck a man with such force that it shot him off his horse, sending him cannoning into another rider. Urging his horse on down the ranks of the legionaries, Fergus cried out encouragements to his men. He had just turned around at the far end of the line, when with a great roar, the mass of Parthian horsemen suddenly surged forwards and charged straight at the Roman infantry line.

  “Here they come boys,” a centurion’s deep booming voice shouted across the din of hundreds upon hundreds of galloping horses, “Hold the line, hold the line! They won’t get past us if we stick together.”

  Fergus sat on his horse and his eyes widened in horror, as he stared, mesmerized at the charging, screaming horde. He had never seen anything like it and it scared the shit out of him. The Parthian horse archers had formed into a tight “V shaped formation” and, as they swept in towa
rds him, they were met by a hail of arrows and lead-bullets. The barrage tore chunks out of the massed Parthian formation, but it did not halt them. Then as the lead rider was less than fifty yards away, he veered sharply to the right towards the flank and the rest followed in a continuous stream. Fergus blinked as he felt something whizz past, narrowly missing him. Beside him, he suddenly heard a strangled cry and turning, he was just in time to see the standard bearer drop the vexillation standard, reach up weakly to his throat, from which protruded a Parthian arrow and then die and slowly topple from his horse. Amongst the Roman ranks the hail of Parthian arrows hammered into shields and flesh in a continuous, noisy and machine-like manner. One by one, forming a continuous chain, the Parthians galloped along the Roman front, shooting at them as they did. And as they raced out towards the flank, here and there a Roman collapsed to the ground. Higher up on the slope, a detachment of slingers suddenly screamed and tumbled to the ground, raked by a hail of arrows; some of the bodies rolling down the slope towards the legionaries.

  “Sir, you must protect yourself,” one of the messengers was yelling at Fergus, as the man scrambled down from his horse and hastily picked up the vexillation banner from where it lay in the dust. “The enemy can see that you are a senior officer from your helmet and uniform. Please Sir. They are targeting you.”

  Before Fergus could say or do anything, the point was rammed home by two arrows that went whining into the ground close by. Amongst the stationary ranks, the legionaries could do little but stand their ground and take the relentless, never ending pounding. Without saying a word, Fergus urged his horse on down the rear of the legionary ranks, showing himself to the men, and as he did, his fear seemed to suddenly subside. If he was to die here on this hill, then so be it. He had made his peace with death long ago. But what he was not going to be was a coward. That would be a worse fate than death. The men needed to know that their commander was with them and watching their performance.