“Ride back to the legate of the Third and warn him that we are about to make contact with a force consisting of two or three hundred enemy horse archers,” Fergus snapped at Britannicus, ignoring the young tribune’s question. “Tell him that I believe the enemy to only consist of horse archers. Go!”
For a moment Britannicus looked confused. Then, as a little colour shot into his cheeks, he turned his horse and galloped away down the column of plodding legionaries. “Centurion,” Fergus cried, as he twisted round to stare at the primus pilus of the First cohort. “Have your men prepare to receive mounted archers. But we keep moving forwards - you understand.”
“Yes Sir,” the officer said quickly, as he too peeled away from the front of the column.
“Are we not overreacting a little,” the standard bearer said in an arrogant voice. “These Parthians are probably just on a reconnaissance mission, out to learn our size and composition. They won’t dare to attack us.”
“Shut up,” Fergus hissed in an annoyed voice as anxiously he turned to gaze to the south. “You are a fool. The Parthians will have spies in all these desert cities. They will have already known our intentions and everything there was to know about us before we even left Circesium.”
“Sir,” the cornicen suddenly called out in a tight voice as he pointed at the horizon, and as he did, Fergus hastily turned to gaze in the direction the trumpeter was pointing. And there on the horizon, small fast-moving clouds of dust were being whipped up into the air. The dust clouds seemed to be on a collision course with the Roman column. Hastily Fergus turned to the sixty cavalrymen mustered behind his staff. “Form a wedge,” he yelled. “If those bastards get too close we will have them, but no one moves until I give the order.”
Further down the dusty Roman column a trumpet rang out. It was the signal to prepare to receive cavalry. The Parthian horsemen were indeed moving fast Fergus could see. The horse archers had formed a single line and were bearing down on the Roman column at an angle. When they were a hundred paces away or so, the angle of the assault changed, and the Parthians went racing and galloping down the Roman flank. With a whirring noise a hail of arrows slammed into the column and here and there a trooper tumbled from his horse and a legionary collapsed to the ground. Shrieks and cries broke out amongst the Roman ranks, as the Parthian horse archers veered away into the open desert in a lazy figure of 8 manoeuvre. Along the banks of the river, the ordered Roman column had broken up as the legionaries had come to a halt and had raised their shields against the menace. Warily the heavily laden legionaries watched the Parthian horsemen as they came around for another pass.
“Keep moving, keep moving,” Fergus roared, as he turned to the men of the First cohort. “Sound the signal to advance,” Fergus yelled at his cornicen. “They are trying to slow us down. We must keep moving.”
A moment later a trumpet rang out. Grimly Fergus gazed at the Parthians as they came racing in for another attack. The riders had no armour and were wearing loose fitting tunics. The horsehair plumes atop their helmets were streaming behind them and a quiver of arrows and a spare bow hung from their belts. As the whining, whirring arrows slammed and hammered into shields, horses, men and the ground, a cavalryman close to Fergus suddenly groaned and toppled backwards from his horse with an arrow protruding from his body.
“Shit,” Fergus cursed as he gazed at the enemy riders. The Parthian horsemen looked like they were superb riders who knew exactly what they were doing. Some of the men seemed to be riding with both hands free. At his side, one of the cavalrymen hastily thrust a small round shield into Fergus’s hands.
“What are we waiting for Sir?” one of the cavalry decurion’s cried in a frustrated voice. “Let us go after them. We can take them.”
“No,” Fergus replied sharply. “Stay in formation. We don’t have enough cavalry to overwhelm them. They are faster and more mobile than we are. If we leave the column they will simply envelop us and mow us down. We won’t even get close to those horse archers. We stay in formation unless they make a mistake.”
Tensely Fergus turned to look down the column. The legionaries had started to move again but the pace had slowed, and the men were watching their desert flank warily, their large shields protectively raised around their bodies. In the corner of his eye Fergus suddenly caught sight of Britannicus racing down the Roman column towards him. As the young tribune reined in his horse beside him Fergus could see that the boy’s cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“Sir, the legate orders you to keep advancing. We are to keep moving,” Britannicus gasped. “He is going to send us a company of Syrian archers and a company of slingers. They are coming up the line now Sir.”
“Good,” Fergus growled. “The sooner those bastards get a taste of their own tactics the better. When the archers and slingers get here, I want them to take up positions amongst the legionaries. The heavy infantry with their shields should provide them with some protection. See that it is done.”
“Yes Sir,” Britannicus said hastily, as he turned to peer at the Parthian horsemen out in the open desert.
“What are they trying to do Sir?” Britannicus exclaimed.
“They are harassing us,” Fergus snapped, as he too stared at the Parthian column. “Trying to slow us down. Wear us out. It suggests that the enemy do not have the strength to contest our advance and meet us in a pitched battle. But they are going to make us fight for Doura-Europus nevertheless.”
***
It was dark and along the banks of the Euphrates the long Roman column had come to a halt for the night. The only light came from the moon and the beautiful clear carpet of twinkling stars in the night sky. Fergus stood beside a horse-drawn wagon sipping a cup of posca, as he gazed in the direction of the western desert. The legate in command of the battle group had forbidden the lighting of campfires to conserve precious supplies of firewood and to prevent the fires from being used as markers for the Parthians. There had been no question of building a regular army marching camp, for in the desert there was nothing that could be used to build the camp. Instead the Roman battle group lay strung-out along the river’s edge, protected by pickets and the sharpened wooden anti-cavalry stakes the soldiers had brought with them. A few army tents had been erected but most of the legionaries had opted to get some rest under the stars amongst their comrades, mules and wagons. But if they had expected to get a good night’s sleep they were mistaken. As Fergus raised his cup to his lips and gazed into the darkness, he could hear the Parthian horse archers shouting and hollering. The noise was followed by trumpet blasts and from the darkness the occasional thud of approaching hooves and an arrow hammered into the Roman camp, a reminder to the legionaries of the ever-present danger lurking out in the desert.
“Bastards are not going to let us get any sleep,” the primus pilus growled, as he appeared from the darkness and placed his hands on the edge of the wagon. “I have been around the camp. The men are on edge and frustrated Sir. They want to know when we are going to deal with these horsemen.”
Fergus nodded as he took another sip of posca. Then he turned to gaze in the direction of the river, where the convoy of heavily laden flat-bottomed barges and boats had beached themselves for the night.
“Any suggestions?” Fergus growled.
“No Sir,” the primus pilus replied with a sigh. “We can’t see shit in this darkness and the enemy are far too fast and mobile. Attack them and they will run away and still shoot at you. I don’t want my men blundering around in the night chasing ghosts. We will just have to endure it. That’s what I have been telling the men.”
Fergus was about to agree with the primus pilus when Britannicus suddenly spoke up in the darkness close by.
“Sir,” the young tribune said hesitantly. “I have spoken with our Palmyran guides and scouts. They know this stretch of the river better than anyone. They tell me that about three or four miles downstream there is a fracture in the earth, an old dried-up water channel. It’s not very lon
g, deep or wide and it runs parallel to the river. The Palmyran’s say that the gully is just deep enough to hide several hundred men.”
Britannicus hesitated. “So, I was thinking Sir. What if we sneaked in say two companies of Syrian archers and slingers with maybe a company of legionaries in support. We could hide them in the gully and ambush the Parthians as they approached?”
Fergus frowned as in the darkness he turned to gaze in Britannicus’s direction. At his side the primus pilus grunted in surprise.
“The boy may have something there,” the old warrior muttered cautiously.
“We would need to move the men under the cover of darkness,” Fergus growled. “How would we do that without the Parthians noticing?”
“We use the boats Sir,” Britannicus replied hastily. “We move the troops down river in the darkness and get them into position before dawn.”
“You would need some bait,” the primus pilus growled. “Something to attract the Parthian’s attention. Something significant enough to lure them into the ambush.”
“We could use a few legionary squads as bait,” Britannicus said with growing excitement. “Say a recon patrol scouting ahead of our main force. We place them in full view but close enough to the gully. Then as the Parthians move in, our archers and slingers reveal themselves at the right moment and cut down the enemy.”
In the darkness Fergus looked down at the ground. “It’s a risky plan,” he said at last. “What happens if the Palmyran guides have got the lay of the land wrong? What if in the darkness, we miss the correct landing ground? Our men would be isolated and far from help if it goes wrong. What happens if we run into a larger Parthian force? We cannot afford to lose those archers and slingers.”
“It could work Sir,” the primus pilus said. “Some risks are unavoidable. But if it means getting these bastard horsemen off our backs then it’s worth it in my view.”
Fergus remained silent as he thought it through. “All right,” he said at last. “The legate will need to approve the plan. Britannicus, you and I will go to him and explain the operation. If the legate gives his approval, then I will…”
Fergus stopped in mid-sentence. He had wanted to say that he would command the ambush himself, but that would be wrong. As tribune laticlavius and vexillation commander he had wider responsibilities now. His primary duty was to manage the whole vexillation, not just to lead a small part of the battle. This was now a matter of delegation. Awkwardly Fergus cleared his throat.
“Britannicus,” Fergus snapped. “If the legate gives his approval, then you will lead the troops down river and set up the ambush. Take an experienced centurion with you. If you are successful signal, us with a trumpeter. I shall ask the legate to delay our march by an hour to give the ambush a chance. After that we shall continue downstream towards your position. Are you ready to take on such a task?”
“I am Sir,” Britannicus said from the darkness in a voice dripping with tension and excitement.
“The boy has no combat experience,” the primus pilus growled. “Maybe you should send someone more experienced to do the job Sir?”
“No,” Fergus said in a harsh voice. “It’s his plan and he must learn. He must start somewhere. He will either make a success of it or he will die.”
“Along with our precious archers and slingers,” the primus pilus muttered unhappily.
***
Tensely Fergus sat on his horse and gazed southwards along the Euphrates. Dawn had come and gone, and the thousands of legionaries, horses, wagons and mules stood waiting for the order for the advance to resume. They wouldn’t be able to wait much longer. At Fergus’s side his staff too were peering southwards, but along the green river banks and out in the stony desert, there was no sign of the enemy. And there had been no signal from Britannicus and his men.
“We can’t wait any longer Sir,” the primus pilus said sharply, as he sat on his horse at Fergus’s side. “If they were successful we should have heard their signal by now. Doura is still a day’s march away. We need to reach it before nightfall.”
Fergus sighed wearily and nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Have the cornicen sound the advance. We will know soon enough, what has become of Britannicus and his ambush.”
A few moments later a trumpet rang out and the long Roman column began to move. On the river the barges and boats did the same. Idly Fergus turned his gaze to the open desert on the column’s right flank. The Parthian horse archers were nowhere to be seen and that gave him hope. For surely if Britannicus had failed, the Parthians would have been here to harass and slow down the Roman advance, as they had done yesterday and throughout most of the night.
It was a half an hour into their advance when Fergus suddenly heard a distant noise and his heart leapt. Had that been a Roman trumpet? Straining to listen, Fergus suddenly heard it again. The noise was coming from the south. Then ahead along the river bank he caught sight of horsemen galloping towards him. From the banner they were holding up it looked like the recon cavalry squadron were returning, or at least a few of them were. As the horsemen raced towards him, every eye in the Roman vanguard turned to stare at them. The Roman cavalry men’s faces were half obscured by their Bedouin style scarves and they seemed to be in a hurry.
“Sir,” one of the cavalrymen cried out as he recognised Fergus and swerved towards him. “The decurion sent me Sir. The banks of the Euphrates up ahead are littered with dead Parthian horsemen and horses. There must be at least one hundred enemy dead. Shot to pieces by our archers and slingers. The ambush worked Sir. The rest of the enemy have fled.”
An excited stir ran through Fergus’s staff at the news.
“What about Britannicus and his men?” Fergus called out hurriedly. “What has happened to them?”
“They are well Sir,” the cavalryman replied. “Britannicus has withdrawn his men back onto their boats for safety. He awaits our approach in the middle of the river. He has even managed to take a few prisoners.”
“Our casualties?” Fergus snapped.
“Minimal Sir,” the cavalryman grinned in triumph. “A few wounded as far as we could see. The road south to Doura-Europus is open Sir.”
As the Roman column began to pass the first of the fallen Parthian horse archers, a strange satisfied muttering and hissing seemed to make its way down the ranks of the marching legionaries. A few of the men, perhaps those who had lost comrades in the earlier attacks, broke formation to spit on and defile the Parthian dead until they were called back by their officers. Fergus however, had no time for the dead. His eyes were on the Euphrates and the collection of flat-bottomed barges. The recon riders had been right. Britannicus had wisely withdrawn his men into the river in case the Parthians had brought up reinforcements. The boats, having spotted the advancing Roman column, were already heading into the reed-infested shore and as he gazed at them, Fergus spotted Britannicus standing proudly at the front of one of the craft. As the young tribune recognised Fergus, he raised both his fists in the air and roared in ecstatic triumph and around him his men did the same.
***
It was late in the afternoon when the dull, rhythmic crunch of thousands of pairs of legionary’s boots, the thud of horses’ hooves and rumble of wagon wheels was disturbed by a sudden crack. The next moment a small geyser of water erupted, close to one of the boats in the river. Startled, Fergus turned to gaze at the convoy of boats that was following the Roman column. What the hell was that? Out on the Euphrates the sailors were shouting to each other in alarm. Another crack followed and a moment later another small geyser of water shot upwards, close to the convoy. Fergus rubbed his tired eyes and stared out across the river.
“The boats are under attack Sir,” Britannicus cried out, as he pointed at the left bank of the Euphrates. “Look, Parthian artillery on the eastern bank. They are shooting at our boats. They are trying to sink our supplies.”
Fergus said nothing as he too caught sight of the Parthian ballistae drawn up on th
e left bank of the river; a battery of three heavy-wheeled catapults. Britannicus was right. The Parthians were targeting the slow-moving boats. As he stared at the scene transfixed, the cracking noise came again. A dark object went hurtling through the blue sky in a graceful arc and instantly burst into flames as it slammed straight into one of the heavily laden, defenceless barges. On the river, the screams of the sailors rose up and as he gazed in horror at the unfolding scene, Fergus saw some of the boats men leap into the water.
“Let me take a company of legionaries and capture those catapults Sir,” Britannicus hissed eagerly, as he quickly turned to look at Fergus. “Look they are undefended by infantry Sir. If we can get across the river those artillerymen will be defenceless. But if we do nothing they are going to wreak havoc amongst our boats.”
Fergus was staring at the unfolding scene with quick alert eyes. Something didn’t seem quite right, but Britannicus had a point. If he did nothing the Parthians would have a field day with the battle group’s boats.
“Silence those catapults. Do it,” Fergus growled at last, nodding at the young tribune. As Britannicus hastened away Fergus quickly turned to the primus pilus who was riding beside him. “Have the boats men bring their boats into the cover of the reeds,” he snapped. “We must save those barges at all costs.”
“Yes Sir,” the primus pilus growled, as he too hastened away.
Tensely, Fergus turned his attention back to the river. Another barge had been hit and was burning and drifting out of control. A thick column of black smoke was rising into the clear blue sky and in the water, men were desperately screaming for help. The Parthians had to be using incendiary projectiles. Fergus bit his lip. There was no question of the battle group engaging in an artillery duel with the Parthians, for the Roman artillery had been dismantled at the start of the march and would take time to reassemble. Time, which he did not have. Turning his attention to the boats, Fergus saw that Britannicus, leading a company of eighty legionaries, had taken over two barges and they were rowing furiously out into the middle of the Euphrates. And as he watched the mad dash develop across the river, geysers of water erupted close to the boats, showering the soldiers with water. “Come on, come on, come on,” Fergus muttered tensely as he watched the furious race across the Euphrates. On the far bank he could just about make out the Parthians, running around reloading their catapults. Another cracking noise reverberated across the sluggish river and a dark projectile went arching away, before plunging into the water and narrowly missing one of the supply boats. On the left bank Britannicus and his men seemed to have finally made it to the shore, for as he peered at the unfolding scene Fergus caught sight of the Roman legionaries pouring from their boats and storming ashore. Amongst the Parthian catapults, a final defiant projectile went flying across the river and landed in the water with a great splash. Then as the legionaries closed in on their position, the Parthian artillerymen turned and fled, running for their lives into the desert. And as they did Fergus felt a tug of sudden unease. Would the Parthians really have left a battery of highly valuable catapults alone like that, without protection? His unease suddenly grew. Something was not right.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 33