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

by William Kelso

  Along the eastern wall of the Parthian fort the defenders seemed to be throwing everything they had into stopping the slow but inexorable progress of the battering ram. Arrows and stones went hurtling and zipping through the air, pounding the roof of the ram and the accompanying legionaries. From the ramparts, the Parthians were screaming and shouting; working themselves up into a fever pitch. In reply the eighty Syrian archers, with their distinctive pointy helmets and loose chain mail armour, were down on one knee out in the desert; their beautiful composite bows pointing upwards as they sent volley after volley of arrows at the defenders.

  Tensely Fergus watched the battle unfolding and, as he did his fingers started to fidget with the pommel of Corbulo’s old gladius. Choosing the right moment to commit his main assault force was going to be crucial. But it was even more important that his men saw that he was willing to take the same risks as they had to. As the battering ram and the testudo finally reached the Parthian wall, Dio, standing beside Fergus, hissed in delight and clenched his fist. For a moment nothing happened. Then Fergus saw the massive, suspended wooden beam with the copper head of a ram at its point, swing out of its protective shed before slamming back into the wall with a dull thud. Once more the combat engineers working inside the shed, swung the massive beam backwards before letting it slam back into the wall, hitting it at the exact same spot. Up on the wall the Parthian defenders had responded by lowering a large leather bag filled with hay. They were trying to swing the bag into position, so that it would soften the blows from the battering ram, but the effort failed as the man holding the rope was struck by two arrows in quick succession and dropped the rope, causing the bag to fall to the ground.

  “Not long now Sir,” Dio said excitedly.

  Fergus said nothing as the ram’s head crashed once more into the wall. Dio was right. That wall was not going to remain standing for long. Already he could see cracks appearing along it. On the ramparts, the Parthian defenders too had sensed the impending collapse and had given up on their efforts to defend the wall. They were retreating from the point of danger.

  “Have the men form up on me,” Fergus snapped, turning quickly to Dio. “Flying wedge. No prisoners. We go in through the breach.”

  As Dio hastened away and started to relay his orders to the five hundred heavily armed legionaries crouching behind the command post, Fergus’s attention remained fixed on the wall. A legionary from the squad assigned to him for close personal protection, hastily handed him his large infantry shield and helmet. Quickly Fergus slid the ordinary legionary’s helmet with the wide cheek guards and flat-rimmed neck guard over his head and raised the large shield. The shield’s grip and helmet brought back a hundred memories, but he refused to think about them. With a suddenness that took everyone by surprise, a section of the wall seemed to sway and then with a tumbling, chaotic crash the mudbrick wall collapsed, sending a cloud of reddish dust billowing into the air. For a moment all was silent. Then a triumphant cry rose from the Roman ranks.

  Pulling his sword from his sheath, Fergus raised it above his head.

  “Follow me,” he roared.

  Without waiting to see if the men were following, he started out at a run, heading straight towards the breach in the walls. The shield felt heavy, and as he reached the base of the wall his left arm was already aching from the effort of holding it. An arrow zipped past, striking the ground. Shocked, Fergus looked up to see the Parthian archers shooting at him from up on the wall. Another arrow shot past narrowly missing him. But this was no time for second thoughts. In the tumbled mass of mud bricks and broken debris, the men from Britannicus’s two infantry companies were already clambering over the broken masonry and pouring into the fort. Clouds of dust, kicked up by the collapse, obscured his view but briefly Fergus caught a glimpse of Britannicus’s fine red-plumed helmet vanishing into the enemy stronghold. Fergus swore as his boot caught a sharp piece of broken masonry. Hastily he clambered up over the mound of broken bricks, half choking on the dust. Behind him, the five hundred legionaries came charging after him in an extended V shaped formation with Fergus at the very apex. As Fergus slithered down into the fort in an undignified manner, a Parthian shrieking in a high-pitched, outraged voice, launched himself at Fergus swinging a captured Roman spear. Fergus just had time to block the blow with his shield, stumbling backwards as he did. As the Parthian came at him again he was impaled by a legionary’s spear. Behind Fergus, more and more legionaries came slithering and streaming into the fort.

  “Kill them all. Kill them all,” a Roman voice screamed.

  Wildly Fergus looked around him. All was chaos and confusion. Clouds of reddish dust obscured part of his view but inside, the fort seemed to consist of a single storey building surrounded by an open parade ground. Corpses and the wounded were strewn across the sandy, bone-dry ground. Ignoring the shrieking, confused and merciless hand-to-hand combat that was raging all around him, he set out towards the building at the heart of the small fort. He’d gone no more than a few yards, when he was set upon by three Parthians. The men came charging towards him, wielding swords and knives, their faces contorted in rage and hatred. Taking a blow on his shield, Fergus jabbed at one of the men and was rewarded by a shriek of pain. Then the men assigned to his close protection were suddenly all around him, stabbing and driving the Parthians backwards.

  But the defenders were not so easily beaten and within seconds, the small group of Romans with Fergus at their centre, was surrounded by a vicious, snarling mob. Instinctively the nine Romans bunched together, forming a small tight circle as they desperately fended off the Parthian attacks and blows with their shields and stabbed at their opponents. Fergus suddenly found himself unable to move or raise his hand. His shield was torn from his grip. All he could do was stand up. The tight press of bodies around him was squeezing him, making it hard even to breath. Grimly Fergus struggled to stay on his feet as the mass of screaming, yelling men around him tried to kill each other. If he slipped now he would be trampled to death within seconds. This way and then that way, the mass of bodies swayed and moved, buffeted by the vicious, swirling fighting with Fergus unable to do anything about it.

  Then abruptly the Parthian assault collapsed. More legionaries appeared, savagely cutting their way through the enemy ranks with their short stabbing swords. There was no one better at this sort of close quarters fighting than the Roman legionary. As the pressure around him eased, Fergus was able to raise his sword. Nearby, a Roman collapsed as he was struck by a thrown spear, and from the ramparts a body came tumbling down into the debris with a sickening crunch. Grimly, Fergus stooped and picked up a discarded legionary shield and began to move towards the building, where upon the roof a Parthian banner was still defiantly flying.

  “Tear that fucking flag down,” Fergus roared, gesturing at the Parthian banner with his sword.

  But there was no time for the men to carry out his order, for within a few seconds the Parthians seemed to have regrouped. A group of them, formed into a V shape wedge, came charging straight towards Fergus. Their momentum tore a gap in the Roman line, sending the legionaries scattering and stumbling backwards. As the lead man came at him, Fergus however caught him square on his shield and stabbed him in the head stopping the man’s wild charge dead in its tracks. Around him all was chaos, as men hacked and stabbed at each other in a wild, screaming melee. Suddenly Fergus’s face was splattered by someone else’s blood. Hastily he raised his sword arm to wipe the blood from his eyes. Nearby, two men were wrestling on the ground, locked in a fight to the death and a few yards away, a wounded legionary was choking to death, his hands pressed in vain to a nasty neck wound.

  “Kill them all boys. Kill them all,” a Roman voice screamed.

  Determinedly Fergus started out again towards the entrance into the building. Dimly he was conscious of his bodyguards hastily regrouping around him. The Parthians seemed to have marked him out as the Roman commander for his bodyguards were struggling to fend off the increas
ingly desperate Parthian attacks and lunges. The enemy were out to get him. But how could this be so. How had they managed to mark him out as the Roman commander? He was clad in an ordinary legionary helmet and was holding a legionary shield. With a rush Fergus suddenly realised that he was still wearing his tribune’s cloak. He had forgotten to take it off.

  “Tear down that banner,” Fergus roared again.

  Around him the Parthian resistance was beginning to grow disorganised. As more and more legionaries appeared and came pouring into the fort, the Romans started to drive the enemy back up against the western wall. There was no way out for the Parthians. They were trapped. But as the enemy resistance started to splinter into small bands of isolated and desperate men, there was no question of surrender. Nor did the Parthians seem to wish for it. They looked like they were going to stay true to their word and fight to the end. Grimly Fergus made it to the entrance to the building. A squad of legionaries were already there and were trying to batter their way inside, but the stubborn door refused to budge. With a venomous kick Fergus launched his foot against the door but he too was repelled.

  With an annoyed look Fergus turned away. His chest was heaving from exertion. Around him, across the open parade ground, the scene that met his eyes was one of absolute carnage. The bodies of the fallen lay scattered around, lying on their own or in groups on top of each other. Discarded weapons, shields, decapitated heads, severed arms, boots, feet and helmets were strewn about. A few wounded were shrieking and crying out in pain and a solitary figure was trying to drag himself through the sand, leaving a bloody trail behind him like snail. But the bloody fight was nearly over. The fort was about to fall. Trying to calm his breathing, Fergus paused to stare at a column of legionaries who had made it up onto the western wall and had begun to clear it of its last defenders. Closer by, a knot of determined defenders had retreated to a corner of the fort and were fighting furiously and valiantly as they kept the legionaries at bay.

  “There is no need to close with them. They are finished,” Fergus roared at a centurion, as he angrily gestured at the knot of Parthian defenders boxed in against the walls. “Bring up the Syrian archers and have them finish off those men.”

  Abruptly turning away Fergus once more lunged at the door into the building, but it still refused to budge. He was about to try again when he saw Dio running towards him. The centurion’s fine armour was splattered in blood and dust and he had lost his helmet. Something in Dio’s expression made Fergus hesitate.

  “What?” he roared at his subordinate.

  “Sir,” Dio’s face was ashen. “It’s Britannicus Sir. He’s dead. His men say he got separated from the company. He tried to kill the Parthian leader by himself. He’s over there, Sir.”

  “What?” Fergus growled in confusion, as a little colour shot into his cheeks. “Dead?”

  “I am afraid so Sir,” Dio gasped.

  “Shit,” Fergus hissed, as he quickly looked away. Then he swore again in a softer voice as the realisation sank in. There was always a cost.

  “Shit.”

  Chapter Nine – Battle

  Fergus to his dearest Galena,

  Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow we at last face Prince Sanatruces in battle. It is night as I write this letter to you my love. I am with Trajan’s army some distance east of Ctesiphon. I can see the camp fires of the enemy less than two miles away. They say that the Parthians outnumber us two to one. It is not very nice out here in these arid wastelands and I do miss the green woodlands and meadows of Britannia and Vectis. The past few weeks have been tough, but I am well. We have heard that the kingdom of Osrhoene has joined the uprising. If this is so, I pray that you and the girls have sought refuge and are safe and well - for you know that you and our girls mean everything to me.

  I do not know if you have received my previous letters. The postal system has become unreliable in these unstable and dangerous times. If I manage to survive the battle tomorrow I shall write again. If not, you should know that I am happy to die for Rome and I willingly give my life for all of you. I will not send this letter but keep it on me. The thought that you all are well is sustaining me and I hope that what little good I have been able to do in this life will not be forgotten in the other.

  I shall pray for you and the girls tonight. Give them each a kiss from me. Fergus to his Galena

  Fergus stopped writing and for a moment he looked lost in thought, as he sombrely gazed down at the neat letters scratched into the small, soft wood tablet. Then quickly he closed the letter and slipped it into his tunic. Across the big and clear night sky, thousands upon thousands of stars were visible, twinkling and glowing peacefully in the darkness. It was a most magnificent sight, but Fergus seemed not to notice. Reaching for the oil lamp he rose from his chair and holding up the lamp, he started out into the darkness. Around him, stretching away for several miles the camp fires of Trajan’s army seemed to mirror the stars.

  It was time to do his rounds Fergus thought. With a major battle likely within the next few hours it was important that his men saw him amongst them. Alone, he made his way through the camp, pausing here and there to speak a few words to his legionaries. The men were sitting huddled around their camp fires, resting, sleeping, eating and preparing for the coming battle. They seemed pleased to see Fergus and as they recognised him, some of them called out his name, offering to share their food and wine with him. Declining all invitations, Fergus kept on moving. It was in times like these, he had discovered, that having a good memory served him well for it allowed him to remember men’s individual achievements and actions. And seeing and hearing their commander remember, praise and call out what they had done, had a huge morale boost on the men.

  When at last he had finished his rounds, spoken to his centurions and checked the sentry posts, the night was already well advanced. Wearily Fergus sat down on the looted Parthian chair that had been placed near his tent. For a moment he closed his eyes, but he could not sleep even though he knew he must. Opening his eyes, he turned to gaze in the direction of his gear and personal belongings. There was not much, just a worn army blanket, a metal army cup, all Galena’s letters, a ration of grain, dried beans and the bag containing Britannicus’s ashes. After the capture of the Parthian fort on the banks of the Tigris, he’d ordered the fort and its walls to be demolished. The stronghold was too strategic and important for it to be allowed to be used again as a rebel base, and there were no Roman troops available to hold the place. As for the enemy dead and his own casualties, he’d ordered them to be burned. The slain had been gathered together in great heaps and after a few simple funerary rites had been said, petroleum had been poured over the bodies and they had been set alight. The flames and smoke would have been visible for miles, but he hadn’t cared who would see it. Wearily Fergus stared at the bag containing Britannicus’s ashes. Then he bit his lip. It had been the easiest option to give Britannicus a second chance, but had it been the right decision? After the battle he’d ordered Britannicus’s body to be honoured and burned separate to the others. Dio had performed the religious funerary rites, and afterwards Fergus had collected the ashes and placed them in a bag. He had vowed that if he survived the war and was able to make it back to Britannia, he would hand the tribune’s ashes back to his family in Londinium, so that they would be able to bury their son in his native soil.

  ***

  The sight of twenty thousand Roman legionaries and auxiliaries drawn up ready for battle was truly awesome. It was morning and Fergus, clad in his body armour, greaves, cloak, and wearing a tribune’s plumed helmet, sat upon his horse directly behind the front line, accompanied by his staff and bodyguards. Stoically Fergus turned to look around at the massed Roman army formations. Across the flat, arid plain on either side of his position, stretching for two miles, was a continuous line of Roman soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder. The sunlight reflected from the legionary’s and auxiliary’s armour, and the men’s shields were resting against their legs. In
their hands the soldiers were clutching their spears. The Romans were arrayed three ranks deep, their unit standards proudly on display. Their centurions, identifiable by their plumed helmets, stood with their men in the front row, whilst their optio’s stood at the back of the third row, ready to force any man back into position with their wooden staff’s. Amongst the cohort formations small gaps had been left for the skirmishers. The lightly clad slingers and javelin men were drawn up in a ragged thin line, directly in front of the heavy infantry. It was their job to harass the enemy before the main clash of the heavy infantrymen. And despite the huge numbers of men, the battlefield remained eerily silent.

  Carefully Fergus allowed himself to exhale. He had fought in countless skirmishes, sieges and small battles during his twelve years of army service, but never in anything like this; never on this scale. This was going to be a new experience. The only thing to which he could possibly compare it to, were his father’s experience at Mons Graupius in Caledonia and old Quintus’s war stories. The stories he’d eagerly listened to as a boy growing up on Vectis - about Corbulo, his grandfather, and how Corbulo had fought in the great battle that had brought the destructive reign of the barbarian queen to an end.

  As Fergus studied the mass of silent, disciplined troops, he felt his mount stir uneasily and nervously beneath him. The horse could sense what was coming. The seven hundred or so battle fit men of the vexillation of the 4th Legion had been placed right in the centre of the Roman battle-line, flanked by the cohorts of the 6th Legion. His men occupied a seven hundred feet long section of the main battle line, each man taking up three feet of space. From within their limited space, packed closely together it would be impossible for an ordinary legionary to see more than a dozen yards left or right. They were confined to their little world with just their comrades, officers and weapons for company. Slowly Fergus turned his gaze towards the left and then to the right, but it was impossible to see the distant Roman and auxiliary cavalry formations who would be guarding the army’s flanks. A pall of dust had gathered to the south, but there was no way of knowing what was happening along that section. Had the Parthians attacked? Had a unit routed? Grimly Fergus looked away. It was pointless speculating. His job was simple. To focus on the seven hundred feet of front line ahead of him and make sure that his men held their own. This was no independent command. He had to be ready to quickly and efficiently execute the orders of his superiors when they came and that was that. Carefully Fergus licked his lips. His mouth was parch-dry despite the generous water ration he’d consumed that morning. It was just nerves, a natural fear that came to every living being, Quintus had once told him, when trying to describe standing in the line facing the barbarian queen. And if you could handle that fear without running, without forgetting your job, without disgracing yourself - then you were a proper soldier. Slowly Fergus exhaled again. All seemed ready. His men were in position and had been so for nearly an hour. But the order to advance on the enemy lines had not yet come.