Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  Fergus hesitated as he sensed the trap. Gellius was asking him where his political loyalties lay, and he would have to answer without knowing where the legate himself stood regarding Hadrian and Nigrinus and the War and Peace parties. If he got the answer wrong, it was going to cause friction.

  “I served Hadrian as his head of security for many years Sir,” Fergus said. “Hadrian deserves the promotion. He deserves to be the next emperor.”

  Across from him Gellius grunted and turned to look away and for an awkward moment silence, returned to the office.

  “Well you certainly have done well from being in Hadrian’s service,” Gellius said at last in a neutral voice. “But I also see that last year you served under Lusius Quietus and Task Force Red. I believe they were deployed around Lake Van. My brother served with the sixth legion as their second in command. Maybe you know him?”

  “I am sorry Sir,” Fergus replied. “I did not meet him. I was away most of the time on detached service, hunting Armenian rebels in the mountains. And later I opened up the Bitlis pass into northern Mesopotamia.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gellius said smoothly, “I saw all that in your letter.” The legate paused to examine Fergus carefully again. “Normally the tribune laticlavius that they send us are rich well-connected boys, without any military experience. You Fergus, however seem to be an exception. I can’t understand it. You started out with the Twentieth at Deva as an ordinary legionary from an insignificant family. Service in Britannia followed. Ten years ago, you are transferred as part of a vexillation to the German frontier where you claim to have saved Hadrian’s life. After that you take part in the Dacian war, which you successfully conclude, by being appointed Hadrian’s head of security. And suddenly your father strikes it rich; so rich that he can afford to join the senatorial class. That is one hell of a rise up the social ladder Fergus.”

  A little smile had suddenly appeared on Gellius’s lips as he took a step towards Fergus. “Seems to me,” Gellius said, lowering his voice. “That the key moment for you and your family’s fortunes came during the Dacian war. What did you do? Rob some wealthy Dacian of all his gold and silver? Find yourself a little goldmine? A man does not go from being an ordinary farmer to so quickly becoming a senator without some dirty secrets. So, what are yours Fergus?”

  “With all due respect Sir,” Fergus said stiffly. “That is none of your goddamn business. I am here to serve this legion. I am here to fight Parthians and make the Fourth great again. If there is some misunderstanding regards my role I will be glad to inform Hadrian of the matter.”

  The office went very still and in the corner, the junior tribune sitting at a desk seemed suddenly to be holding his breath.

  Gellius was staring at Fergus. Then just as the silence became intolerable, the legate threw back his head and laughed.

  “Good Fergus, good,” the legate exclaimed as his laughter subsided. “You passed my test. I can see that you are the honest, no bullshit type of officer. Most men who have stood where you are standing have tried to worm their way out of the question and the worst ones have simply lied. But you, you gave it straight back to me on the chin. I like that. You’ve got balls. We are going to get on, you and I.”

  “Yes Sir,” Fergus said in a patient voice.

  Gellius nodded and then turned back to his desk with a sigh. “I understand that you have had the First and Second Cohorts out on parade twice this week. From now on I want the camp prefect to take care of such inspections. It’s his job to supervise training and disciplinary issues. Is that understood?”

  “Yes Sir,” Fergus replied stiffly.

  Gellius sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked down at the paperwork that lay scattered across it. Then he looked up at Fergus.

  “The Fourth is not where I would like them to be,” the legate said in a grave voice. “Some of the cohorts are first class, made up of veterans but others are not. We have had too many new and raw recruits and little time to train them. Most of the cohorts are also understrength. Our best units are the First cohort and the cavalry turmae. Both are fit for active service. The rest however are only fit for garrison duties. That’s why they are spread out across the kingdom of Osrhoene.”

  “I understand Sir,” Fergus said. “We need time to integrate the new recruits and prepare them for battle.”

  “We don’t have time,” the camp prefect interrupted sharply. “The war is not going to pause for us. My men are spending nearly all their time on the frontier building roads, forts, supply depots, watch towers and on garrison, guard and escort duties. There is no fucking time to train them.”

  “The camp prefect is right,” Gellius said with a sigh. “With the capture of Armenia and northern Mesopotamia, Emperor Trajan has ordered the construction of a new fortified frontier and all the army’s efforts are going into this. That’s why there have been no large military campaigns planned for this year. The army is busy but not with conquering new land. I also have it on good authority that Trajan believes us not to be first class or combat ready. He doesn’t think that the Fourth is high quality enough to take an active part in the war.”

  The legate paused as he looked from Fergus to the camp prefect and back again. “Our job is to prove Trajan wrong,” he growled at last. “I intend to show that the Fourth has fully and finally removed the stain of dishonour and defeat that we inherited. That is my ambition and that will be your ambition.”

  “Dishonour and defeat Sir?” Fergus said raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Gellius replied with a little nod. “Fifty-five years ago, during the reign of emperor Nero, the Fourth was forced to surrender to the Parthians. It was an ignoble and devastating defeat and the Fourth has never really recovered from it. The stain on our honour and reputation still lingers but I am determined to erase it once and for all and this current war with Parthia is our opportunity.”

  “That is only true Sir,” the camp prefect said gruffly. “If Trajan still wishes to go further and conquer the rest of Mesopotamia. From everything that I have heard, it seems that the emperor is content to just consolidate his new frontier. Maybe large-scale fighting and campaigning is already over.”

  “Maybe,” Gellius muttered as he looked down at his paperwork on his desk.

  “Trajan’s health is starting to fail,” Fergus said suddenly. “I learned this in Antioch Sir.”

  Behind his desk Gellius looked up at Fergus and, for a moment he said nothing. Then he frowned.

  “You know this for certain?” the legate said as at Fergus’s side the camp prefect too had turned to gaze at him in surprise.

  “Yes, my source would not lie about such a matter. They are keeping it secret. So the news should not go beyond this room,” Fergus replied.

  “Shit,” Gellius said at last, as he looked away. “So, the struggle between the War and Peace factions is coming to a head. Soon we’re going to be fighting this war with one eye on the Parthians and one eye on our rear.”

  “That is one way of looking at it Sir,” Fergus said. “But there is another. In his heart I believe that Trajan has always been a soldier. If he knows that his time is nearly up and if I were a betting man, which I am, I would wager that Trajan is planning one final campaign; one final conquest. He wants to be known as the greatest. The lure of following in Alexander the Great’s footsteps is just too great. He will want to go where no Roman army has ever been before. That’s why I reckon that in the coming campaign season, he will throw caution to the wind and stake all on the conquest of Mesopotamia. This last campaign shall be his legacy to Rome.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three – Marching Orders

  Autumn 115 AD, Zeugma, Province of Commagene

  Fergus to Adalwolf, greetings old friend. I pen this brief letter to you as a reminder of the dire situation that my family finds itself in. Did you manage to raise the matter of my father and Nigrinus with Hadrian? It is of utmost importance that you do so. Please write to me as soon as you can with news.

&
nbsp; These past weeks and months have been very busy, and I have not been able to see much of Galena or the girls. My duties have taken me right across the old kingdom of Osrhoene to visit and inspect our scattered garrisons. The men are working tirelessly to build the new frontier and much good work has already been completed. Morale is high, but I sense that the locals are less impressed by our presence, although none dare to show it to us. The local traders and merchants who dominate these caravan cities seem to want their world to remain politically divided but economically unhampered. It is under these conditions that they can flourish. So, they are not happy to find themselves at the mercy of a single, highly organised financial system that taxes their profits and lays down new rules. There is trouble coming for our garrisons and I am trying to prepare them as best as I can.

  Near the city of Edessa where emperor Trajan so recently held court I happened to come across my old friends from the 7th Auxiliary Numidian Cavalry Alae but there was only time for the briefest of greetings with Hiempsal. In the wooded district of Mygdonia I too saw legionaries and auxiliaries cutting down trees and constructing portable boats. If this is a sign of the things to come, then I believe I shall soon be receiving my marching orders and further letters will have to wait.

  Write soon old friend with news and please remember that my family’s fate weighs heavy on my heart. I am returning to Zeugma soon and shall await your reply. Do all that you can. Fergus to his dear friend Adalwolf.

  ***

  “Fergus, Sir,” Britannicus, the young tribune called out in his native Briton language, hastily saluting as he caught sight of Fergus wearily dismounted from his horse. “The legate wishes to see you right away. I am to take you to him now.”

  It was late in the afternoon, in the courtyard of the old Seleucid citadel and HQ of the Fourth Legion in Zeugma. Annoyed, Fergus turned to gaze at Britannicus as he handed his horse over to a slave.

  “What? No time to even wash my face” Fergus snapped in an irritable voice. “I have just got back. What’s so damn important?”

  “There has been news,” Britannicus said with excitement in his voice. “We have received orders Sir.”

  Fergus frowned as he stared at the young tribune. Then without saying a further word, he started out in the direction of Gellius’s office, hastily followed by Britannicus. In the dark corridors of the old fortress the legionaries smartly saluted, but Fergus seemed oblivious to their presence.

  The legate was in his office going over some paperwork when Fergus marched in and rapped out a quick salute. Fergus’s red cape with the broad purple boarder were stained with dust, as were his boots and body armour. After his long journey he had been hoping to go home and see Galena and his girls, but those plans seemed to have been dashed.

  “You wished to see me Sir,” Fergus said quickly, as he sensed Britannicus standing behind him.

  “Yes,” Gellius said as he gave Fergus a quick glance. “Whilst you were away we received new orders. The Third Cyrenaica legion has been tasked with the capture of the city of Doura-Europus and they have requested reinforcements. Trajan have ordered us to put together a vexillation. I am putting you in command. The boys from the Third are mustering at our outpost in the town of Circesium on the Euphrates. Doura-Europus is about fifty miles further downstream on the right bank of the Euphrates, but it’s in Parthian hands. We’re going to have to fight for it. After you have made the necessary sacrifices to the gods, you are to take the First cohort and our cavalry and leave as soon as possible. My written orders are to follow. Once you have joined the Third Cyrenaica, you are to report to their legate for further instructions. You will be remain under his temporary command until you receive further orders. Am I clear?”

  “Yes Sir, I understand,” Fergus replied in calm voice. “May I make one request Sir?”

  “Go on,” the legate said sternly.

  “That I can take Britannicus with me Sir,” Fergus replied. “He is proving to be a good, competent staff officer. However, he has never seen combat and I know he is desperate to see some before he is sent home.”

  “Found yourself a young protégé have you,” Gellius said quickly.

  Gellius paused as he examined Fergus. Then he cast a quick glance at Britannicus whose cheeks and ears were glowing.

  “Granted,” the legate said at last in a stern voice. Gellius then turned his attention back to Fergus. “So, it seems that you are going to have your wish and lead the men into battle.” Fixing his eyes on Fergus, Gellius straightened up and continued speaking. “I expect you to lead your men in a manner that will bring pride to this legion. If you can’t manage that, then don’t bother coming back. War tests a man like nothing else. That will be all Fergus. May fortune ride with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four - The March South Begins

  The Euphrates had widened and had grown more sluggish the further south and downstream they had gone. Along the river’s lazy banks, green reeds, isolated tufts of grass, prickly bushes and a few stunted trees fought for life in the harsh, stony and featureless Syrian desert that stretched away to the horizon. It was late in the afternoon and, in the clear blue sky, the sun glared down on the long Roman column that was spread out on the march along the west bank. The faces of the stoic legionaries, loaded down with sixty pounds of equipment plus spears, body armour, entrenching tools, helmets and their large shields, were covered in dust and fine desert sand. Their marching packs containing food, blankets, water-pouches, spades, cups, cooking utensils and spare weapons were slung over their shoulders, suspended on wooden rods. In between the marching men, some of the legionaries were leading mules loaded down with leather tents, firewood and sharpened wooden stakes.

  Fergus, clad in his red cape with the broad purple border and wearing his magnificent crested helmet, rode on his horse at the very front of the column with Britannicus at his side. The junior tribune was clad in a similar red cape but with a thin purple border. He looked excited and keen. Behind Fergus came the primus pilus of the First cohort, the cornicen, trumpeter and the cohort standard bearer holding up the square vexillation standard of the Fourth Scythica. Idly Fergus turned to look towards the west. The flat, stony Syrian desert stretched away to the horizon and there was nothing to see. The view reminded Fergus of his patrols with his half savage Numidian riders of the 7th Auxiliary Cavalry Alae. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he realised now but those had been good days. Great days. Tearing around the desert on their small shaggy horses and lording it over the wealthy, pompous trade caravans that had used the road from Palmyra to Sura. Once he’d gained their respect those hardy north-African horsemen would have followed him anywhere. With a sigh, Fergus turned to look towards the east. Out on the Euphrates, a convoy of boats manned with oarsmen was keeping pace with the slow plodding column of heavy infantry, archers, engineers and cavalry. The boats were piled high with vital supplies for out here in the desert, there would no chance to go foraging. On the eastern bank the desert stretched away to the horizon. One day out from the Roman outpost at Circesium and they had entered a wasteland, which would have swallowed up whole armies if it wasn’t for the reassuring presence of the wide tranquil river. Twisting around in his saddle, Fergus gazed back at the stoic, plodding column that was following him. The legate of the Third Cyrenaica had ordered him to lead the advance on Doura-Europus. It was a gesture of respect that Fergus had gratefully accepted. As he gazed back at the long columns, Fergus could see that the battlegroup of seven thousand men, including the whole of the Cyrenaica and an attached cohort of Syrian archers, had created a dust cloud that would be seen for miles and miles. They were not going to take Doura-Europus by surprise.

  “Sir, riders approaching,” Britannicus cried out excitedly, as he raised his hand and pointed at something out in the western desert.

  Calmly Fergus turned to gaze in the direction in which the young tribune was pointing and there on the horizon, he suddenly made out figures on horseback racing towards the long, dusty column.
Behind him the two squadrons of legionary cavalry stirred, as they too caught sight of the approaching horsemen.

  “Well,” Fergus growled, as he turned to glance at Britannicus. “Your eyes are better than mine. Are they ours or the enemy?”

  Britannicus hesitated as he squinted and raised his hand to shield his eyes.

  “Ours Sir,” he exclaimed at last. “Looks like the recon squadron. Shall I order our horsemen to intercept them Sir?”

  “No, let them approach,” Fergus replied, as he stared at the distant figures with a thoughtful expression.

  “Why are they returning Sir?” Britannicus asked.

  “I don’t know,” Fergus replied with a frown. “But I don’t think this is good news. They had orders to return only if they spotted trouble.”

  As the lead horsemen rode up to Fergus, he recognised the decurion in command of his recon squadron. The man had a Bedouin scarf wrapped around his head that half obscured his face, and both he and his horse were covered in dust.

  “Parthian horse archers,” the decurion cried out, as he slowed his horse and trotted towards Fergus. “We spotted them about four miles to the south. They will be here shortly. No more than two or three hundred of them, but they are moving fast.”

  “Any cataphracts amongst them,” Fergus called out quickly. “Did you see any heavy shock cavalry?”

  “No Sir,” the decurion cried, as he lowered his Bedouin scarf. “Only horse archers but they looked dead set on intercepting us.”

  “Good,” Fergus said hastily. “Rest your horses and form up with rest of the cavalry.” Anxiously Fergus turned to peer into the desert to the south, but he could see nothing.

  “What can two or three hundred light horsemen do to us Sir,” Britannicus exclaimed in a puzzled voice, as he too peered towards the south. “There are seven-thousand of us. Surely, they are not going to attack us. That would-be madness.”