Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  As he made his way across the pontoon bridge and approached the eastern bank, he caught sight of a group of senior officers standing on the bank observing the troops as they crossed. The officers were easily identifiable by their fine cloaks, armour and helmets. Moving towards them at the head of his eight hundred strong vexillation, Fergus turned his head to the officers and snapped out a quick salute, which was returned. Fergus marched on, following the unit ahead of him. Two weeks had gone by since he’d led his men into the emperor’s camp at Babylon. The time for rest and recovery had been short, for within days other Roman contingents had arrived and the camp had quickly swelled to over twenty thousand men. And a few days later Trajan had decided that the time had come to march east to confront Prince Sanatruces. The news had been greeted with relief and eagerness by the men. A major and decisive battle was coming. Every man knew it. But with it came the hope that the battle would crush the uprising once and for all.

  The unit ahead of him was moving towards the marching camp that was still being constructed and, as he followed them, Fergus turned to snatch a quick glance over his shoulder. Striding on behind him with his staff officers was Britannicus. The young tribune looked glum and depressed. Since they had arrived in the emperor’s camp he’d kept himself to himself, avoiding any social contact or occasion with his fellow officers. It was as if he was deeply ashamed of himself. And rightly so Fergus thought, as he turned away. By rights he should have sent Britannicus home in disgrace. The tribune had disobeyed orders and his mistake had gotten men needlessly killed. There was no excuse for that. But in the end, Fergus thought with sudden weariness, he too shared blame for the debacle. And so, he had decided to give Britannicus a second chance. The reprieve however had not done anything to alleviate the strained relationship that now existed between him and his former protégé.

  ***

  It was getting late when Fergus at last managed to get away from supervising his men’s camp building duties. Slinging a towel over his shoulder and slipping a sponge into his tunic pocket, he headed for the banks of the Tigris. A quick swim and wash in the river was just what he needed. Around him, the huge army camp was a hive of activity. Long rows of white army tents stretched away in neat ordered lines and men, mules and horses were moving along the paths in between the tents. Striding towards the river bank he suddenly paused. In the fading light he caught sight of the distinctive uniforms and helmets of a Batavian cavalry alae. The Batavians occupied a section of a long row of white army tents and most were huddled around their small cooking fires, busy preparing their evening meal. They were speaking in low voices and in their native language and, as he listened Fergus recognised a few words. Gazing at them with sudden interest, Fergus turned and strode up to a group of Batavians who were tending to their horses.

  “Are any of you from the 2nd Batavian Cohort?” Fergus called out.

  The cavalrymen turned and gazed at Fergus in silence as he approached. Repeating his question haltingly in the few Batavian words he’d learned from his father, Fergus paused.

  “We’re from the Ninth Sir,” one of the troopers replied at last in Latin, as he reached up to stroke the nose of one of the horses.

  “My father served with the 2nd for 23 years,” Fergus replied with a friendly nod. “His name is Marcus. He commanded the Cohort during the Brigantian uprising in Britannia.” Fergus paused and took a deep breath as he recalled Marcus’s words. “He gave a speech to his men once.”

  “So, trust in the man beside you and do your duty for in the coming days I want our enemy to cry out in alarm as they see us approach. I want to hear them shout: Ah shit. Here come those damned Batavians again.”

  For a moment the Batavian troopers remained silent, as they glanced at each other. None of them looked a shade over twenty-five.

  “It was before our time, but we know the speech Sir,” one of the Batavians replied politely in heavily accented Latin.

  Fergus nodded again and grinned, trying to engage the young troopers in conversation, but they seemed reluctant to do so. An awkward silence followed. The real motive for approaching them, he knew, was because he was hoping that against the odds they would have news about his father and his family back on Vectis. The Batavian community was small but tightly knit and its members were spread across the empire. Maybe they had heard rumours, snippets, anything? But as the realisation dawned that they had no news, Fergus looked down at the ground.

  “Very good,” Fergus said looking up quickly with a friendly smile. “Very good. Carry on.”

  Turning awkwardly away from the group, Fergus started out once more in the direction of the river. But he had not gotten far when he heard running feet coming towards him. In the gloom he saw the runner from his staff and as he recognised the man, Fergus groaned. Some instinct warned him he was not going to get a chance to have a swim after all. The runner seemed to be looking for him. He was in a hurry.

  “I am over here,” Fergus called out from the gloom.

  Hastening towards him, the legionary quickly rapped out a salute.

  “A message from the legate,” the soldier said hastily. “He says you are to report to his HQ right away Sir.”

  ***

  “What’s going on Sir?” Fergus asked, as he strode along at the legate’s side. The two of them were hastening towards the central section of the camp, where the emperor and his entourage had set up their tents.

  “I don’t know,” the commanding officer of the Sixth Legion replied. “Trajan has called a meeting of all his senior officers. It’s unexpected. Something must have happened.”

  Fergus remained silent as they approached the encampment. His seven hundred and fifty strong vexillation had been attached to the Sixth, to whose legate he now reported. In the evening sky the first of many twinkling stars had appeared. Dozens of praetorian guards were on duty around the cluster of imperial tents. Making their way towards a large pitched tent, Fergus glanced around. There was a tension amongst the Roman officers converging on the HQ. He could see it in their faces and the urgency by which they approached. Something indeed must have happened.

  Oil lamps had been fixed to the sides of the tent and in their flickering, reddish glow Fergus could see that well over fifty senior legionary and auxiliary officers were present inside the spacious tent. They were talking to each other in low, urgent and hushed voices.

  Taking a spot at the back of the gathering, Fergus and his commanding officer patiently and silently waited for the emperor to appear.

  As at last Trajan entered the tent, accompanied by a squad of stern and hard-faced praetorians, the officers silently and respectfully stepped aside to allow him to move towards a chair and a small table that had been readied for him. Eagerly Fergus peered at the emperor. There was no doubt that his physical health was deteriorating but Trajan’s spirit seemed undimmed. If anything, he looked more determined than ever. Without saying a word or acknowledging anyone, Trajan made his way to the chair and tiredly lowered himself into it. For a moment the old warrior gazed down at the table, lost in thought. He looked sombre.

  “Gentlemen,” Trajan called out at last without looking up. “I have received news in the past hour. Bad news. The consul Maximus and his troops have been routed by the Parthians. Maximus is dead, killed in battle. Prince Sanatruces advances on Ctesiphon with his army. He is a mere forty miles away from us as of tonight.”

  A murmur arose amongst the gathered officers.

  “Tomorrow we will break camp and advance to meet Sanatruces on the plains east of Ctesiphon, where we shall bring an end to his career,” Trajan called out and as he spoke, he lifted his head and gazed up at his officers. Despite the bad news Fergus found his lips forming into a grin. The old warrior’s confidence and resolve rang true and were infectious. Trajan was a leader. A formidable leader - for when he spoke men believed him. There was no doubt about it. His presence filled the tent with confidence.

  “We shall halt the Parthian advance and avenge Maximus,
” Trajan called out. “We shall crush this uprising and restore order. Mesopotamia and its people belong to Rome. We are not going to give up all the hard-won territory that we have conquered these past two years. No fucking way. No, fucking way,” Trajan cried out in a louder voice.

  For the briefest moment the large tent remained silent. Then a stir rippled through the assembly and as one, the officers raised their voices and cried out in fierce agreement. Some began to stamp their boots on the ground and suddenly the chant swept through the tent.

  “Parthicus. Parthicus. Parthicus!”

  Fergus joined in crying out the honorary title that the Senate back in Rome had voted to bestow on Trajan earlier in the year for his unprecedented conquests of Armenia, Osrhoene, Adiabene and Mesopotamia.

  As the officers started to file out of the tent, a young tribune came up to Fergus and the legate of the Sixth and motioned for them to stay behind.

  “Sir,” the tribune said quickly, addressing himself to the legate and handing him a small letter bearing Trajan’s personal seal. “Here are your new orders. See that they are carried out immediately.”

  ***

  Standing in his command post out in the desert, Fergus peered across the flat, arid, and brown ground towards the gates leading into the square Parthian fort. The high mudbrick walls of the enemy stronghold were strengthened by four towers, one to each corner, and on the western side the fort was protected by the wide, placid waters of the Tigris. The water sparkled in the clear dawn sunlight. On the battlements, he could make out armed men gazing back at him. Fluttering from the top of one of the towers was a defiant Parthian banner. There could be no more than a few hundred defenders Fergus thought, as he studied the defences. Clustered around Fergus, his officers - clad in their sturdy body armour and wearing their plumed helmets, remained silent. All his officers were gazing at the solitary figure hastening towards them across the two hundred yards of no man’s land that separated the Roman siege lines from the Parthian fortification. Fergus remained motionless, his hands resting on his hips as the figure approached.

  A day and a night had passed since he had been ordered to break away from Trajan’s army, march south and take this small but strategically important Parthian fort. For, from its position on the eastern bank of the Tigris, twenty miles south of Ctesiphon; the square stronghold threatened Roman supply lines and controlled the river traffic between Charax in the deep southern delta and Ctesiphon to the north. The battle group’s new orders had been greeted with dismay by his officers, for all feared that it would mean that they would miss the decisive battle against prince Sanatruces. But orders were orders. The Parthian fort had to be taken. The old redoubt had been abandoned until only a few days ago, when a force of rebels from Seleucia had managed to sail downstream, reoccupy it and start to disrupt the river traffic.

  “They say no,” the vexillation standard bearer said suddenly breaking the silence as he peered at the figure hurrying towards them. In his hand the signifier was holding up the square vexillation banner of the Fourth Scythica and his helmet was covered in a wolf’s head.

  Fergus remained silent as the Parthian translator closed the gap. As the translator caught sight of Fergus he quickly shook his head.

  “Sir,” the translator gasped, as he made it to the command post. “They refuse to surrender. They told me they shall fight to the death. They told me to tell you to stuff your demand up your arse.”

  Disappointed, Fergus shifted his attention from the translator and back to the fort. He had his answer. It had been a worth a try to get the enemy to surrender. If time had been on his side, he could have minimised his casualties and settled down to starve the enemy out, or undermine his walls with siege tunnels, but those options were closed. His orders were to take the fort and take it quickly and then to re-join Trajan’s army with all possible speed. The emperor it seemed, needed all available troops to be present for the coming battle against Sanatruces.

  “Have the scorpions start to shoot at those battlements,” Fergus growled, as he turned to his officers. “Target the men above the gateway to keep them guessing as to where our main assault will come.”

  Quickly Fergus turned to Britannicus. The young tribune was watching him tensely and anxiously.

  “I want you to take the battering ram and strike the eastern wall,” Fergus said in a clear voice. “Make sure that you protect the ram, for it is the only one we have. Use your archers to provide cover and have your men form a testudo. Batter down that wall. Once you have made a breach - storm the fort. I shall lead the main force into the stronghold. No prisoners. They had their chance to surrender. I want this stronghold captured before nightfall today. Is that clear?”

  “Yes Sir,” Britannicus said in a quick, eager voice as his face lit up with sudden relief and determination. “Thank you, Sir. You can count on me. Today I shall win back your respect. The fort shall be ours before nightfall.”

  As Britannicus hastened away, Fergus watched him go. He still wasn’t completely sure that giving the tribune a second chance was the right thing to do. But it had been the easiest thing to do. The strained relationship between them had not however improved. Britannicus, terrified of the shame of being sent home in disgrace, had responded to his reprieve, by becoming more and more desperate to prove himself. He had become terrified of being denied his chance to redeem himself. Pride in oneself meant everything to him. Disgrace and humiliation were worse than death. Fergus sighed. Every soldier he’d ever met had had that same fierce self-respect, a pride that meant more than almost everything else. But Britannicus was taking it to a new level. If he had ordered Britannicus to singlehandedly attack the fort it was likely the tribune would have done so.

  The sound of the battery of scorpions going into action, made Fergus turn to look to his right. The carroballistae, giant cross bows mounted on wagons, had started to hurl their massive bolts at the defenders above the gates. The twang and crack of the Roman light artillery reverberated across the open desert. From under the simple canvas sheet held up by wooden poles that passed for his command post, Fergus silently observed his troops as they began to move up into their assault positions. His battlegroup built around the seven hundred and fifty or so legionaries of his own vexillation had been reinforced by a company of Syrian archers, three squadrons of Numidian light cavalry, a battery of cart-mounted artillery and a detachment of combat engineers who were manning the battering ram. Close by and being held in reserve, the ninety or so Numidian cavalrymen upon their small shaggy horses, were gazing at the Parthian fort. Quickly Fergus’s eyes swept the desert to his rear. But there was no sign of trouble from that direction. There had been no time or resources to build proper siege fortifications, but a scattering of anti-cavalry caltrops and sharpened wooden stakes provided some protection to their rear, if Parthian cavalry did show up and try to relieve their besieged comrades.

  A shriek of pure terror rang out from the men above the gates, as one of the scorpion bolts decapitated a man with brutal force sending his body and head flying backwards into the stronghold.

  “Direct hit Sir,” one of the officers nearby growled, in a satisfied voice.

  Fergus didn’t reply. His attention was firmly fixed on the movement of Britannicus’s troops and the solitary battering ram, that was slowly rolling towards the eastern wall. The wheeled battering ram, a heavy wagon with a long wooden beam suspending on ropes beneath a protective shed-like structure, was attracting a lot of Parthian attention, but their missiles were bouncing harmlessly off its iron and hide clad roof. On either side of the ram, two companies of legionaries, a hundred and sixty men, were slowly advancing on the wall, tightly packed in their enclosed testudo formations, their shields raised above their heads, front and flanks. As he gazed at the war machine’s progress, Fergus was suddenly reminded of the fortresses in Dacia which he had helped to reduce. Compared to those formidable stone monsters, perched on their lofty impregnable cliff tops, this was going to be a relatively st
raightforward task but as with every military operation, there would always be a cost. A cost counted in men’s lives.

  “Once that ram reaches the enemy wall,” Dio said quietly, as he came up to Fergus, “it will be only a matter of time before that wall collapses. Should we not move the main assault force into position so that we can exploit the breach as soon as possible Sir?”

  “No keep them facing the gates,” Fergus replied sharply. “I want the enemy to keep guessing until the last moment from which direction the main blow will come. I will give the order when the time is right.”

  “Very well Sir,” Dio said quickly, as he lowered his eyes.

  That was his job as commander Fergus thought, as he peered intently at the progress of his troops. To move amongst his men, to encourage them, to judge situations and make the right decisions at the right time and in the right place. If he could successfully do that, then victory would surely follow.