“We go when you see those gates start to open,” Fergus snapped, as he knelt on one knee beside the officer and turned his attention to the western gate into Doura-Europus. “Remember the legate’s orders. Anyone who surrenders is to be spared. No looting, no raping, no murder of civilians. We are going to need these people to be on our side soon.”
The centurion grunted but said nothing, as tensely he turned to stare at the fighting.
Up on the walls of the city the Parthian missile barrage had come to an end, apart from the odd desultory arrow. The Syrian archers and slingers were surging forwards across the corpse littered ground towards the assault ladders in support of the heavy infantry. As he knelt on one knee and stared at the gates, Fergus suddenly saw them start to open. And as they did, a Roman trumpet rang out. A surge of satisfaction went coursing through him. Britannicus and his men had captured the gates. They had done the job they’d been tasked with.
“Follow me,” Fergus roared in a loud voice, as he rose to his feet and drew Corbulo’s old gladius from his sheath. The steel blade gleamed in the sunlight. Raising it in the air, Fergus started to run towards the city gates and as he did, a great triumphant roar rose from the Roman lines and the four hundred legionaries in the second wave rose and went charging after their commanding officer. As he came through the gates, Fergus was met by a scene of devastation beyond. Black smoke was rising into the clear blue sky from numerous fires. Corpses, pools of blood and discarded weapons lay scattered across the densely packed city streets immediately beyond the walls, and the screams and shrieks of the wounded filled the city with noise. A defiant old woman was perched on the roof of her house, furiously flinging roof tiles down at the Romans in the street. As Fergus looked up at her a Syrian archer sent an arrow straight into her chest, toppling her from her perch. In the narrow streets small groups of legionaries were finishing off the last of the defenders and fanning out into the city. The Parthian resistance looked like it had been broken.
Fergus halted just inside the gates as more and more heavily-armed Roman legionaries poured into the city. Then he caught sight of Britannicus. His protégé was tending to a wounded comrade who was lying in the street coughing up blood. The young tribune too was wounded and bleeding from a cut to his left arm, but it didn’t look too serious. In his right hand Britannicus was still clutching the standard of the First cohort. Catching sight of Fergus, Britannicus straightened up. The young officer’s face was streaked with sweat and dust and more blood was smeared across his body armour. Hastily he crossed the street towards Fergus.
“We took the gates Sir. Like you ordered us to,” Britannicus said quickly. “Doura-Europus is ours Sir.”
Chapter Thirty-Six – Trajan’s Plan
Spring 116 AD
The narrow twisting city street was crowded and noisy. Shopkeepers stood on the doorsteps of their small dwellings displaying their wares and doing business with the townsfolk whom had come out to buy their daily provisions. Beggars, clad in filthy lice infested clothes sat propped up against walls holding up their hands and dogs were sniffing amongst the piles of discarded rubbish in the alleys. It was morning and in the skies above the city of Doura-Europus a solitary desert hawk was gliding on the air currents, hunting for its next meal. Fergus, clad in his helmet, body armour and wearing his Tribune’s cloak, strode on down the busy street followed by Britannicus and his staff and as he did, the haggling townsfolk fell silent and hastily moved out of his way. Fergus however was oblivious to the guarded looks he received from the inhabitants. All throughout the winter that had followed the capture of Doura, the army had kept the vexillation of the Fourth and the whole of the Third Legion in the city on occupation duties. There had been little trouble from most of the locals, whom had swiftly adapted to their new circumstances, all except the priests of a temple whom had publicly denounced the Roman occupation. In retaliation the Roman legate had ordered that the doors to their temple be taken down. And there had been no sign of a Parthian counterattack. The Parthians, it appeared from the intelligence reports, were weak and hopelessly divided by their ongoing civil war. The men from the Third Legion had even found time to erect a triumphal arch on the road, north of Doura-Europus, dedicating the city’s capture to the Emperor Trajan. As if it had been the Third who had taken the city, Fergus thought contemptuously. If he remembered correctly it had been Britannicus and the men of the First cohort who had captured the gates and sealed the city’s fate. The corona muralis, the golden crown should have belonged to Britannicus. However, as the events of the battle were disputed by a centurion from the Third Legion, the legate had found it expedient to award the decoration to both Britannicus and the centurion from the Third. Still the battle honour won by Britannicus had significantly improved the morale and pride of his men and that was a good thing Fergus thought. Most of the legionaries had been housed in tents outside the city’s walls. The legate of the Third Cyrenaica and de facto commander of the city had however chosen to base his HQ in the city home of the former Parthian governor, who had reputedly fled before the assault.
Doura-Europus was not a bad posting Fergus thought, as he made his way towards the Roman HQ, but he missed Galena and his girls. During the winter he’d been granted just ten days leave in which to see them in Zeugma. The blessed time had been far too short. But what was worse was that there had been no news from Adalwolf, nothing at all. And despite writing several times, Galena too had had no news either from Kyna or Dylis on far away Vectis in Britannia. There had been no news from Vectis for over a year now. The lack of news unsettled him but there was nothing he could do about it. At night, in the privacy of his quarters, he’d prayed to every god he knew, imploring them for their divine protection. But the immortals too had remained silent and had provided little comfort. The best thing he’d discovered was to just throw himself into his job.
And he was just about to find out what that job was going to be. For the legate in command of the Doura battle group had, it seemed, that morning received important news and had called all his senior officers to an urgent council of war. Maybe the long-anticipated conquest of Mesopotamia was about to begin.
***
The Roman HQ was located inside an imposing, fortified house, originally built in the Seleucid Greek style, but the newer wings were of Parthian origin. A squad of legionaries stood around the entrance on guard duty. The men’s body armour and helmets reflected the sunlight and they seemed to be in a good mood. As Fergus followed by Britannicus, the primus pilus and the eight-man legionary escort strode through the entrance into the building, the guards snapped out a quick, well-practised salute. The officers iron hobnailed boots crunched and rasped on the stone mosaic floor. At the door leading into the HQ conference room more legionary guards were on duty, and this time the decanus in charge stepped forwards and held up his hand, blocking the way.
“Only you Sir,” the corporal said quickly addressing, Fergus. “Legate’s orders. I am only to allow the senior officers into the room. Your staff will have to wait outside.”
Fergus turned and gave Britannicus and the primus pilus a quick little nod. Then he stepped on into the room and the guards closed the door behind him. The legate of the Third Cyrenaica and some of his senior officers were already present, pouring over a large map that had been laid out across a table. In the large room colourful frescoes, depicting hunting scenes, adorned the walls. The window shutters had been closed and in the dim light from burning oil lamps, Fergus caught the scent of incense. Marching up to the legate, Fergus quickly saluted and turned to look down at the map.
“You are probably wondering about the unusual secrecy of this meeting,” the legate said, glancing quickly at Fergus and then at the others. “Well there is a reason for that. This morning an imperial courier arrived at my HQ. He has brought with him Trajan’s plan for the conquest of Mesopotamia. We are going to be on the move southwards very soon.”
The legate paused. “Secrecy, gentlemen, is of the utmost impo
rtance. What we discuss here right now shall not be shared with anyone outside of this room. You are not to tell anyone, not even members of your own staff. The men shall only be informed of our destination once we are on the march. Is that clear?”
Around the large table, the officers nodded in agreement.
“Good,” the legate continued, gesturing at the map with his fasces. “Please look at the map and refrain from commenting until I am finished.”
For a moment the legate remained silent as he gazed down at the map. Then he cleared his throat. “Our offensive has already begun,” he said. “Here in the north around Singara, Hatra and Lake Van, Lusius Quietus and the Consul Maximus together with four legions and auxiliaries, have already crossed the Tigris into Adiabene and routed the Parthian vassal king Mebarsapes near Gaugemela. These forces are now poised to advance on Ctesiphon from the north, along the banks of the Tigris. Trajan has arranged for a lookalike of himself to be present in the army, to give the Parthians the impression that he intends to follow the same route, along the Tigris to Ctesiphon, that Alexander the Great used four hundred and fifty years ago. Quietus’s and Maximus’s secondary task is to conquer and pacify Adiabene and Assyria. But their primary task is to act as a diversion. To keep the eyes and attention of the Parthian King of Kings Osroes firmly on the threat from the north.”
“For the real blow, the mortal blow that is going to knock the Parthians out of the war, will not come from the north,” the legate snapped. “It is going to come from the west and we are going to deliver it. The despatch that I received says that Trajan secretly left our northern armies over two weeks ago. The emperor is hastening to join us here at Doura-Europus, with a second army, consisting of four fresh legions and auxiliaries - together with us a force of thirty-five thousand men. We are to expect his arrival within a week or so. Once the emperor gets here we are to join forces with him.”
The legate paused to look at the stern, expectant faces around the table.
“Once Trajan joins us with his army and supply fleet, we are to descend the Euphrates until we reach the Royal river here at Fallujah. The speed of our advance is going to be crucial. Nothing must be allowed to delay us. Trajan wants to strike at the heart of Mesopotamia before king Osroes is even aware of our approach. From Fallujah the Royal river, which is actually a man-made canal connecting the Euphrates to the Tigris, will lead us into the very heart of Mesopotamia and Babylonia. Our objectives, gentlemen, are the great cities of Seleucia, here on the west bank of the Tigris and the Parthian winter capital Ctesiphon, directly opposite Seleucia on the east bank of the Tigris. Make no mistake. These cities together are huge, over twice the land surface of Rome. Their walls are mighty. No Roman army has ever taken them. They are said to have a population of six hundred thousand people and the fertile farm lands between the rivers could support another half-a million inhabitants. These cities form the major Parthian population centres. Ctesiphon is the centre of their government. Once we capture both cities it is only logical that Parthia as a state will collapse and the war will be over.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven – Reconnaissance
The sun beat down on the stony, featureless desert. Along the wide, sluggish Euphrates, a thin strip of lush green vegetation provided a welcome relief from the endless monotony of the desert. Fergus, his face half covered in a Bedouin style keffiyeh, sat on his horse peering ahead as he walked the beast down the desert road. To the east along the course of the great river he could make out a dust cloud in the clear blue noon sky. It seemed to be drawing closer. Behind him, coming down the road the two hundred and forty Roman cavalrymen of reconnaissance group “Scythica” also seemed to have spotted the approaching dust cloud. It could mean only one thing, Fergus thought with a frown. People. Turning in his saddle he raised his fist in the air, calling the small column to a halt.
“Britannicus take half the men and move out into the desert,” Fergus called out to the tribune who was riding directly behind him holding up the square vexillation banner of the Fourth Scythica Legion. “If they are hostile, prepare to take them in the flank. No prisoners. We can’t handle them.”
“Do you think they are hostile?” Britannicus asked as he warily studied the approaching dust cloud.
“I don’t know,” Fergus replied. “But I am taking no chances. Be professional and polite with the civilians but make sure that you have a plan to kill everyone you meet. Now go.”
Quickly the young tribune turned his horse and, shouting an order to the four Roman cavalry turmae, squadrons who were following him, Britannicus started to move out into the desert. Calmly Fergus kept on moving down the road towards the dust cloud as the remaining four squadrons reformed around him. A week had passed since Trajan had arrived in Doura-Europus and the advance south down the Euphrates had begun. The sight of four complete legions and a dozen auxiliary cohorts, some of whom had come from as far away as the German frontier, had been a magnificent and splendid occasion. Thirty-five thousand soldiers and a huge fleet of supply boats had descended on the small desert trading post and amongst them, Fergus had caught a glimpse of emperor Trajan himself, clad in his splendid purple imperial robes. And with the emperor’s arrival, news had come that the senate, faraway in Rome, had granted Trajan the honorary title of Parthicus for his conquest of Osrhoene and northern Mesopotamia. It had been an auspicious start to the campaign. The start of the Roman advance on Seleucia and Ctesiphon had been preceded by a general council of war, the outcome of which had been to assign Fergus command of one of the two cavalry reconnaissance groups that would precede the main Roman force. The two hundred and forty troopers, the combined cavalry components of the Fourth and Third legions, together with a small band of Palmyran guides and Parthian translators, had been formed into recon cavalry group “Scythica”. Their task was to scout ahead of the main Roman army, keeping to the west bank of the Euphrates whilst the second cavalry recon group “Parthica” had responsibility for the east bank.
Warily Fergus fixed his eyes on the approaching dust cloud. Only a considerable body of men could create such a cloud. His orders were clear. He must avoid any contact with strong Parthian forces and report back any problems or threats to the main force that was descending the Euphrates, half a day behind him. But from the cloud of dust it was hard to tell what was coming towards them.
“Form up into a wedge,” Fergus cried out as he twisted round and shouted at the troopers massed behind him on the desert road. “Two squadrons on either side of the road.”
In response the cavalry decurions, officers, repeated his orders and the Roman reconnaissance group began to form up in tight V shaped formations, with their officers right up at the front. Out on their desert flank, Fergus could see that Britannicus too had formed his men into a V shaped wedge and was moving parallel to him. At Fergus’s side his cornicen shifted in the saddle of his horse and brought his trumpet up into a more comfortable position. Fergus kept walking his horse down the road. Ahead, the dust cloud was closer now and in the distance, he could make out figures, horses and camels. As the two parties steadily approached each other along the road, Fergus frowned as he saw that many of the camels were roped together and heavily laden with boxes, sacks and amphorae. The men leading them were bearded, dressed in long white robes and their heads were covered in Bedouin style keffiyeh.
“Looks like a desert trade caravan Sir,” the cornicen, said as he gazed at the newcomers. On the road a hundred yards away, the foremost horsemen and camels had come to a halt and were staring at the Roman cavalry patrol. Raising his fist in the air, Fergus motioned his men to come to a halt. For a minute the road remained silent as both parties eyed each other warily. Out in the desert, Britannicus had turned his squadrons towards the road and was slowly moving in on the trade caravan’s exposed flank. With a grunt Fergus beckoned for one of his Parthian translators to approach. The man, a swarthy looking Greek from Doura, bowed hastily as he came up to Fergus.
“Come with me. Do exactly as
I say,” Fergus said sharply as he urged his horse forwards towards the stalled caravan. And as he did, one of the traders did the same, moving out to meet Fergus half way. Cautiously Fergus examined the man on horseback who approached him. The trader’s face was half hidden under his keffiyeh and he looked tense. His eyes darted from Fergus to the Roman troopers out in the desert.
“Ask him who he is and what he is doing here?” Fergus growled as he brought his horse to a halt.
Obligingly the Greek translated the message and in response the merchant gabbled something in an alien language and quickly pointed at Britannicus’s troopers, who were slowly moving in towards the caravan.
“He says that he is a merchant from Charax bound for Palmyra,” the Greek translated. “He says he has a valuable cargo from India for the merchants in Palmyra. He doesn’t want any trouble but your men out in the desert are making him nervous.”
“Tell him that we shall have to search his men and his animals,” Fergus snapped, as he eyed the man. “Tell him that if he complies willingly, that no harm will come to him, his men or cargo.”
Hastily the Greek translated, and the merchant replied quickly, turning to look at Fergus with a surprised, questioning look.
“What are you looking for?” the Greek said. “He wants to know what you are looking for?”
“That is none of his goddamn business,” Fergus replied sharply. “Now no more nonsense. Have him tell his men to dismount and get down on their knees. My men will inspect his goods. If he cooperates I promise him that all will be well, and he will be free to continue on his journey.”
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 35