***
The light had started to fade and in the Roman marching camp along the edge of the Euphrates most of the men were still busy erecting their tents and preparing their evening meals. Out on the desert perimeter, guarded by a few Batavian cavalry squadrons, work parties were out spreading anti-cavalry caltrops across the desert floor, whilst others were digging a V-shaped trench and constructing an earthen embankment. As he hurried through the camp towards the river Fergus however, paid the work no attention. Up ahead on the banks of the river the work details had stopped what they were doing and were lining the embankment. The men were staring at the river and some were calling out to the sailors manning the small fleet of boats that had suddenly appeared out on the wide waters. The ships had come from the north but were carrying Roman banners. Pushing his way through the crowd of curious soldiers, Fergus made it to the front. Pausing on the steep embankment, he gazed down at the river barges that were pulling into land beside his camp. The ships were laden with cargo, amphorae and other supplies.
“Who are you?” Fergus cried out in a loud voice, as he searched around trying to spot whoever was in charge.
“We’re bringing supplies down river,” one of the sailors shouted in good Latin from a boat nearest to the shore. “They are destined for the garrison at Ctesiphon and Seleucia. We’re mighty glad to see you boys. May we anchor here for the night? There are hostile forces just to the north.”
“How did you get past Doura?” Fergus shouted back.
“Doura is in rebel hands,” the sailor cried, as a grin appeared on his face. “Presume that you lot are heading north to recapture the city. We snuck past them last night. We had no lights, just kept our distance and let the current do the work. The rebels never even noticed us passing. Fucking amateurs.”
Carefully Fergus turned his gaze to the mass of supplies piled up on the boats. Then he licked his lips.
“What news from the north?” Fergus shouted.
Along the water’s edge, several of the supply vessels had thrown their anchors into the river and a few sailors were busying themselves with securing their vessels and lowering their sails.
“Not much,” the captain shouted back across the peaceful waters. “Hatra continues to hold out against us and most of Osrhoene and Armenia are completely lawless, but Quietus has managed to torch Edessa, and the last I heard, he has also managed to recover Nisibis. We would be in a whole load of deep shit if it wasn’t for Quietus. If you want my opinion Sir, Trajan should have made Quietus his deputy and not that useless prick Hadrian, who sits in Antioch doing nothing. Anyway, are you all right with us spending the night here. My men are exhausted. We have had a long journey. We could do with your protection.”
For a moment Fergus remained silent, as his gaze swept over the small fleet of supply boats.
“Fine, anchor here for the night,” he shouted back. “But my men are low on supplies. We will take from you what you were going to deliver to the garrison at Seleucia. And we’re going to need those supplies right away so start unloading them.”
Onboard the captain stared at Fergus in stunned surprise. “Sir, I have orders to deliver them to Seleucia. The men there need those supplies. I can’t just surrender them to you.”
“Seleucia is a burnt-out ruin. There is no Roman garrison anymore. We were it,” Fergus shouted back, his voice rising angrily. “Have you not heard. We took the city weeks ago and burnt it. It is no more. So, fuck your orders and start unloading those supplies. My men need them.”
***
The tent was lit by two oil lamps and in their soft glowing light Fergus watched Hera eat as he sat quietly on the ground repairing a hole in his tribune’s cloak. It was late and through the gap in the tent the night sky was filled with stars. Close by, stretched out in his hammock, Dio, still in his body armour, was fast asleep, snoring gently, his head resting on his arm. Outside the tent, the Roman camp was quiet, the peace punctured by the occasional shout and the noise of voices conversing. Quietly Fergus observed Hera. The slave girl was hungrily devouring her soup. She had ignored the spoon he’d given her and instead was pouring the liquid straight into her mouth. Once she was done she hastily reached for the loaf of hard, black bread and tore away a piece before stuffing it into her mouth, chewing furiously. Fergus smiled and looked down at the ground. He’d placed her on one of the supply wagons at the rear and had assigned a wounded soldier to watch her. There was no way the girl would be able to do the twenty-mile plus daily marches. At first Hera had seemed confused and frightened by her unfamiliar surroundings but she had not run away even though she’d had ample chance to do so. She had trusted him Fergus thought with satisfaction and for that he was glad for it meant he would not need to discipline her. She was a slave after all even though she probably didn’t realise it yet.
“Hera,” Fergus said suddenly looking up at her and using her name to catch her attention. “When this war is over you will become part of my family’s household. You will go where we go. You will live with us, but you cannot leave. Maybe when you are older you will regain your freedom.” Fergus paused and lowered his eyes. “I have a wife. Her name is Galena and five daughters. A few of my girls are your age. Galena is strong willed and very beautiful. She will be strict with you, but she has a good heart. You must do what she tells you to do.” Fergus paused again and looked up at Hera. “I haven’t seen my family in nearly a year and I miss them, but I know that you will be happy in my household. Our home is far-a-way in Britannia. It is a beautiful green land filled with great wild forests like you have never seen before.”
Across from him Hera had abruptly stopped chewing and was staring at him. Fergus sighed and looked away. The girl had not understood a word he’d said.
Chapter Twelve – House to House
Once more the massive bronze head of the battering ram came swinging out of its protective shed and crashed into the gates, sending a dull thudding and cracking noise reverberating across the open desert. From his vantage point some two hundred yards behind the ram, Fergus watched the war machine doing its work. It was morning and along the western wall of Doura-Europus, a few defenders were pelting the battering ram and the Roman testudo with missiles. But the defenders were few and their efforts strangely half-hearted and ineffective. Massed across the open flat desert, around Fergus, were nearly two thousand heavily-armed legionaries. The silent men were standing, grouped together behind their company and cohort standards, their large shields resting against their legs. In their hands they were clutching their spears. The sunlight gleamed and reflected from their body armour and helmets. Every single man was staring at the gates leading into the besieged city, waiting patiently for the order to storm the place. The ram was doing an effective job and it was clear to all, that the wooden gates would not last long.
Stretching away on either side of the main assault force, arrayed in positions that sealed the city off from the landward side, parties of Syrian archers and slingers were bombarding the walls with a barrage of arrows and lead bullets. And further back, protecting the Roman camp, Fergus could see the Batavian cavalry squadrons who were being kept in reserve. All was ready. The decisive moment was coming. Fergus turned to peer at the defenders on top of the walls. He had been expecting more resistance from the rebels. If this was all they could manage then Doura would fall quickly and that was just as well, he thought grimly. It was imperative that he took the city today. For his cavalry scouts had warned him that a large force of Parthian cavalry was lurking just a day’s ride south along the Euphrates. If he wasn’t careful his men would be caught between the city walls and Parthian horse archers.
Fergus turned his attention to the group of officers standing close to him. He had originally decided to place himself at the head of the assault and personally lead his men into the city. A commander should lead from the front after all, like any centurion. But in a rare act of rebellion, his senior officers including Dio, had flatly refused to allow it, arguing that he was
too valuable and that the risks were too high. No amount of arguing had been able to change their minds. So instead, as a compromise, he would be going in with the second wave. Grimly Fergus lowered his hand until it rested on the pommel of Corbulo’s old gladius. Then he sighed. He did not relish what was coming. The rebels should have surrendered. Doura was going to fall. The city was going to fall today and when it did, he would be forced to make an example out of its citizens, an example that they would never forget.
With a loud shattering crack, the bronze head of the Roman battering ram broke through the gates, sending them swinging inwards. The noise was greeted by a great triumphant roar by the Romans. Moments later a trumpet rang out and the legionaries surged forwards. Up on the walls the defenders were crying out in alarm, but their few pitiful missiles could do nothing to halt the attack. Tensely Fergus watched, as the first companies led by their centurion’s stormed through the gates. Then quickly he turned to the legionaries around him.
“Let’s go, go, go,” Fergus roared, as clutching his shield he began to calmly walk towards the shattered gates.
As he reached the entrance into the desert city, Fergus could see that the gates had nearly been torn from their hinges. Wood splinters and the remains of the broken cross beam together with a few corpses, lay scattered about in the street. The bodies were oozing blood onto the paving stones. On either side of him legionaries were rushing into the city and further away, he could hear screams and confused shouting. Without reaching for his gladius, Fergus calmly strode into Doura-Europus and as he did, a spear knocked down one of the men ahead of him. Up ahead, blocking the narrow street was a makeshift barricade made of an overturned wagon, stones, barrels and debris. The legionaries trying to force their way through were being held back by determined resistance and their advance had stalled. Hastily Fergus turned his gaze to the right and then the left. The two other narrow streets leading away from the gates were also blocked by similarly defended barricades. A large group of legionaries were trying to force their way through but were being held back. As another man went down, felled by an arrow, Fergus bit his lip. Then a Roman voice cried out in warning. Suddenly rebels had appeared on the roof tops of the buildings that surrounded the gates. With frantic, desperate energy they began to pelt the Romans down below in the street with stones, darts, roof tiles, arrows and spears. Fergus growled in dismay as he and the men with him quickly veered into the relative shelter of the gatehouse. So, this was why the defenders had not put up much resistance on the walls and in front of the gates. It looked like they were going to make the Romans fight from house to house.
“Get up on those roofs,” Fergus roared. “Drive them from those roofs. Bypass those barricades. We go house to house. Get up on the roof.”
Pulling his gladius from its sheath, Fergus poked his head around the edge of the wall and snatched a quick look at the rebels on the roof tops. Then calling out to his bodyguards, he broke cover and sprinted across the street, launching himself at the doorway into one of the nearby buildings. His shoulder struck the wooden door but instead of crashing through into the room beyond as he’d expected, the door refused to budge and instead Fergus went bouncing painfully and embarrassingly backwards onto the paving stones. Around him the city was filled with shrieks, shouts and the noise of desperate fighting men. As he lay on the ground, a roof tile came hurtling through the air and smashed into a hundred fragments, narrowly missing him. Startled, Fergus scrambled to his feet just as one of his bodyguards kicked open another door and vanished into the darkness beyond. Storming after his men into the dark, cool building, Fergus caught sight of one of his men disappearing up a flight of stone steps. Racing on after him Fergus shot up the stairs and a few moments later emerged into bright daylight and out onto the flat roof of the single storey building. Close by, one of the rebels standing on the roof turned and came at Fergus, lunging at him with a knife. With a yelp Fergus stumbled backwards as the tip of the man’s knife raked across his body armour. Then with a swift, savage and powerful blow, Fergus punched his sword into his attacker’s neck, killing him instantly. Nearby, the bodyguard was locked in a vicious fight to the death with another man. The two of them were grappling with each other, frantically rolling across the roof as they tried to stab each other. But there was no time to go to the legionary’s aid. With a furious, high-pitched scream, a woman came at Fergus slashing the air with a long scythe. Fergus’s eyes widened in horror and once again he staggered backwards as the woman’s blade swept in towards him. Behind his assailant stood a boy who looked no older than six or seven. The woman seemed intent on protecting him. The boy’s face was pale with terror. Blocking the scythe with his shield, Fergus quickly forced the shrieking, furious woman backwards and then finished her off by stabbing her in the abdomen and kicking her off the roof and into the street below, where she hit the pacing stones with a thud. On the rooftop close by, the legionary had finally gotten the upper-hand and was slowly throttling his opponent to death with his hands. Gasping for breath, Fergus whirled round but the only person left on the roof was the young boy. He was standing rooted to the floor, his eyes filled with horror, his lip trembling as he stared at Fergus, but he had not moved an inch, nor did he make a sound. Ignoring him Fergus leapt to his bodyguard’s aid, but his help was not needed. Grimly the legionary staggered to his feet, just as more Romans came surging up onto the roof, their hobnailed boots clattering on the stone stairs.
“House to house,” Fergus roared. Across from him on the adjacent roof several rebels were pelting the Romans in the street with missiles. Without hesitating Fergus took a running leap and launched himself across the narrow gap that separated the building from the next roof. He landed on his feet, but his momentum sent him crashing and tumbling into one of the rebels. Losing his shield on impact, Fergus went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The man he’d crashed into was shrieking and trying to stab him. As they grappled with each other, Fergus tried to stab his opponent, but the man had a firm grip on his arm. With a ferocious cry Fergus slammed his forehead and helmet into the man’s face and was rewarded by a high-pitched shriek of pain and the man’s grip on his arm weakened. Tearing himself free, Fergus staggered to his feet and kicked his opponent in the groin with his hobnailed boots. The blow forced the rebel down onto his knees, but before the man could do anything or make another sound, a legionary had stabbed him in the back. Close by, someone screamed. A moment later something thudded onto the ground. Staggering backwards Fergus was suddenly aware of a searing pain in his leg. Looking down he saw something had gashed his upper leg and blood was welling up, but it was not a serious wound.
In the corner of the roof an old man was the only survivor. Slowly and warily the man backed away, his eyes darting from one face to another as several legionaries closed in on him. He looked very old. In his trembling hand the man was clutching a knife. Fergus grimaced as he felt his leg stiffening up. Then before any of the legionaries could attack, the old man swiftly raised his knife and cut his own throat. As the blood gushed out, he toppled silently over the side of the building.
“Sir are you all right,” the decanus in charge of the bodyguards cried out, as he saw the blood seeping from Fergus’s leg.
“I am fine,” Fergus snapped irritably. On the flat roof from where they’d just come from, more legionaries had appeared and were leaping across the gaps between the roofs. In their midst, ignored by all, like a stone statue, the small boy stood silent and unmoving, completely frozen in fear and horror. Down below and around the barricades the sound of fierce fighting could be heard and, across the street from him, Fergus caught sight of more legionaries. The Romans were moving, leaping and fighting their way across the roofs of the terraced houses, trying to make their way towards the centre of Doura. As Fergus stooped to retrieve his shield, one of the legionaries was hit by a spear and went tumbling down into the street.
“Keep moving,” Fergus yelled at his men and, ignoring the pain in his leg, he launched hi
mself across the gap and onto the next building. The roof of this house was deserted but as Fergus landed, the floor abruptly gave way under his weight and with a startled cry he disappeared through the roof and into the dark room below. Fergus landed on a table with a painful cracking crash and the impact shattered the wooden table, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. For a moment he lay on the ground too stunned to move. In the darkness close by, a woman suddenly screamed and something in her shrill voice made the hair on Fergus’s neck stand up. Staggering to his feet, Fergus just had enough time to see the woman coming at him clutching a stone. With all her might she swung at Fergus, intending to bash his head in with the stone, but he ducked, and the woman missed. Before she could recover, a legionary came dropping down from the roof above and landed right on top of her. The force of his impact broke the woman’s neck.
In the gloomy light, Fergus hastily turned to look around. The building however seemed to consist of just one room and the woman had been the only occupant. With a crash another legionary jumped down into the house and then another. Grimacing, Fergus hastened towards the door, opened it and cautiously poked his head out. In the narrow street beyond he could see a barricade blocking the road. A group of men, women and boys were standing behind the barricade, lobbing a barrage of stones and missiles at the legionaries who were trying to force their way through. Quickly Fergus withdrew his head and pressed his back up against the mud brick wall as he tried to steady his breathing. In the room his companions were watching him, as more of his men came jumping down through the hole in the ceiling. Hastily Fergus picked up his shield from the ground.
Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 14