Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  ARMENIA CAPTA

  Book seven of the Veteran of Rome series

  By: William Kelso

  Visit the author's website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/

  William Kelso is also the author of:

  The Shield of Rome

  The Fortune of Carthage

  Devotio: The House of Mus

  Caledonia - Book One of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hibernia - Book Two of the Veteran of Rome series

  Britannia – Book Three of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hyperborea – Book Four of the Veteran of Rome series

  Germania – Book Five of the Veteran of Rome series

  The Dacian War – Book Six of the Veteran of Rome series

  Published in 2017 by FeedARead.com Publishing – Arts Council funded

  Copyright © William Kelso. First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To: David and Jill

  ABOUT ME

  Hello, my name is William Kelso. I was born in the Netherlands to British parents. My interest in history and in particular military history started at a very young age when I was lucky enough to hear my grandfather describing his experiences of serving in the RAF in North Africa and Italy during Worl d War 2. Recently my family has discovered that one of my Scottish and Northern Irish ancestors fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

  I love writing and bringing to life the ancient world of Rome, Carthage and the Germanic and Celtic tribes. It’s my thing. After graduation, I worked for 22 years in financial publishing and event management in the city of London as a salesman for some big conference organizers, trying to weave my stories in the evenings after dinner and in weekends. Working in the heart of the original Roman city of Londinium I spent many years walking its streets and visiting the places, whose names still commemorate the 2,000-year-old ancient Roman capital of Britannia, London Wall, Watling Street, London Bridge and Walbrook. The city of London if you know where to look has many fascinating historical corners. So, since the 2 nd March 2017 I have taken the plunge and become a full-time writer. Stories as a form of entertainment are as old as cave man and telling them is what I want to do.

  My books are all about ancient Rome, especially the early to mid-republic as this was the age of true Roman greatness. My other books include, The Shield of Rome, The Fortune of Carthage, Caledonia (1), Hibernia (2), Britannia (3), Hyperborea (4), Germania (5), The Dacian War (6) and Devotio: The House of Mus. Go on, give them a go.

  In my spare time, I help my brother run his battlefield tours company which takes people around the battlefields of Arnhem, Dunkirk, Agincourt, Normandy, the Rhine crossing and Monte Cassino. I live in London with my wife and support the “Help for Heroes” charity and a tiger in India.

  Please visit my website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/ and have a look at my historical video blog!

  Feel free to write to me with any feedback on my books. Email: william@kelsoevents.co.uk

  Armenia Capta

  Book seven of the Veteran of Rome series

  Chapter One – Charity - July 113 AD

  The city of Rome shimmered in the morning light. From his vantage point on the balcony of his villa, perched high up on the Janiculum hill, Marcus had a splendid view of the vast metropolis. Slowly, savouring the scene, he took a sip from his regular breakfast mug of posca, watered down wine with added spices, which he was clutching in his right hand. Indus had not yet showed up at the villa and he had a few moments to himself before the start of a busy day. For a fifty-year old he still looked in good shape, thanks to a regular work out and by declining to indulge in too much food and wine, which in Rome, were constant temptations. His red hair had not thinned away and he was clean-shaven and clad in a fine white toga with a broad purple senator’s stripe running down it. Age it seemed had not yet physically slowed him down but these days he noticed that he craved peace and tranquillity more than he used to.

  It was still early but he could already feel the oppressive heat starting to build. Down at the bottom of the steep and bone-dry, scrub and boulder-strewn slopes of the Janiculum, the greenish waters of the Tiber glistened in the sunlight. Beyond them, on the eastern bank, surrounded by numerous buildings and apartment blocks with red roof tiles, stood the old city walls that had protected Rome for nearly five hundred years. Idly Marcus ran his fingers across his clean-shaven chin. He was still missing his beard. It was a casualty of his new senatorial position and that meant that it had had to come off. In the senate only supporters of Hadrian wore beards in the Greek fashion and he was most definitely not a supporter of Hadrian.

  Somewhere far off, a bell was ringing and the perfumed scent of the colourful flowers in his garden filled the air. A black cat had appeared in the garden and was lazily sniffing one of the plants. Rising above the city on top of the summit of the Capitoline hill was the great temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the patron god and protector of Rome. Nudging the cat away from his flowers with his foot, Marcus stared at the magnificent temple. Ahern liked to argue that the temple of Jupiter was the home of pious, dutiful Rome whereas the Colosseum was the home of wild, riotous fun-loving Rome. And according to Ahern, both were competing for the soul of the city.

  Slowly Marcus turned to gaze towards the enormous Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum that stood at the southern edge of the Forum. He had refused to set foot inside the Colosseum after he and Petrus had met Abraham, the fake Christian priest and had watched the Christians being eaten alive by lions, some seven years ago. It was not a religious issue. He did not believe in the Christian god but there was something not right and dishonourable about persecuting a man simply for his faith and he had no desire to see it again. After all, Rome had become a great power by tolerating and allowing men to do and believe what they wanted; as long as they did not harm the empire.

  Marcus nodded as he thought about it. Was he himself not proof that Roman meritocracy worked? He had been born in an army camp in Britannia, the poor, bastard, illegitimate son of a Roman-citizen soldier and a Celtic mother. He had been a no-body with little prospects. At seventeen he had run away to join and serve in a Batavian auxiliary unit, had become a proper Roman citizen on his army discharge, then a man of equestrian rank. Now finally, the poor bastard son with no prospects had become a senator of Rome, a highly-privileged position, held by no more than six hundred men amongst the tens of millions in the whole empire. He had reached the very top. He had made something of himself. It was something to be proud of and it demonstrated that Rome could work for all. Marcus lowered his eyes to the ground as he suddenly wondered what his father, Corbulo would make of him now. He’d had help of course in his career advancement and luck had played its part. The fortune which Fergus, his son, had brought back from his Dacian war, and which he had deposited with him, had been more than enough to materially qualify him for candidacy to the senate in Rome. And with the help of his influential upper-class friends, Lady Claudia, Paulinus and Nigrinus, he had been appointed a senator by imperial decree. That had been five years ago now.

  Marcus blinked and awoke from his daydreaming. The cat had returned to harass his flowers and once again he nudged it away with his foot. Sho
rtly after Fergus’s return from the Dacian war, Efa had died and they had buried her beside her husband Corbulo on the battlefield where Corbulo had once fought against Boudicca, the barbarian queen. They would be together now for eternity and for that he was glad. The farm on Vectis was booming under Jowan and Dylis’s careful management. As a senator of Rome, he was under no obligation to attend the senate meetings in the city. Many senators, he had discovered, were not active members. Yet despite not particularly liking Rome, there was one important reason, which each year, brought him back to the eternal city. He and Kyna, his wife, together with Ahern and Elsa had taken to spending half their time in Rome and half on their estate on the Isle of Vectis in Britannia. He’d also decided to take young Ahern and Elsa with him to Rome because it gave them a chance to further their education and the two youngsters had loved it. Ahern, Kyna’s boy by another man and now Jowan’s adopted son, was fifteen. With Lady Claudia’s help, he had become an apprentice to one of the leading scientists in Rome. Elsa, Lucius’s daughter, was twenty-one and was going to marry a brilliant young doctor, a relative of Paulinus, later in the summer.

  To the east just behind the temple of Jupiter, the sun was rising into the clear blue sky and as he gazed at the vast, magnificent city, Marcus sighed and slowly shook his head in wonder. He loved this view. He loved standing here or pottering around in his small peaceful and well-tended garden, surrounded by pleasant scents and the wild animals that seemed drawn to the place. It had been the reason why he had purchased the small, smart villa and garden on the Janiculum hill. The thought of having to live in the cramped, noisy and stinking city had been too much, but as a senator of Rome, Marcus knew that he needed to be close to the capital. The Janiculum hill was a good compromise. Far enough away from the city to avoid its sins and close enough to be able to conduct his business when he was in Rome. And one day when he became too old to work and finally retired, he had promised himself that he would spend all his time in this garden. But in the meantime, there was business to attend to. There was a reason why he returned to Rome each year. Using his own funds and initiative he had set up a small military charity and hospice for army veterans who had fallen on hard times. There were hundreds and hundreds of them sleeping rough on the streets of the capital and more arrived every day, drawn from all parts of the empire. If the Roman state would not tackle the plight of her veterans then he would, he had resolved. He could not just walk away. People’s lives were dependent on him.

  * * *

  The mausoleum of Augustus towered above the roofs of the buildings that lined the street. It was a large imposing building on the eastern bank of the Tiber and, as he strode along the narrow city street, Marcus could not help but gaze up at the circular construction with its pillars and fine conical roof. The mausoleum was over one hundred and forty years old and contained the cremated ashes of the first emperor of Rome, Augustus and those of his family. Augustus had ordered it to be built on the fields of Mars, the flattish area north of the city, where for centuries the army of the Roman republic had gathered before marching off to war. The open fields had long since disappeared under the urban sprawl of the expanding metropolis, but Marcus had thought it a fitting place to set up his military veteran’s hospice.

  The street was busy with pedestrians but this section of the city, beyond the old walls was newer and less populated than the posher areas around the Forum. Marcus, dressed in his distinctive senator’s toga, ambled along and as he did, he ignored the furtive and respectful glances of the crowd as they recognised him. As Marcus stepped up onto the high stone-pavement to avoid an ox-drawn wagon that trundled past, he turned to glance at Indus. His Batavian bodyguard was following him closely, a gladius tucked away in his belt and he was clutching a stout stick. Indus was built like a brick, a huge man of around fifty who didn’t say much. His eyes were tensely searching the faces of the passers-by, looking for signs of trouble. Marcus allowed himself a little smile. Indus took his job very seriously and being Marcus’s bodyguard seemed to be the only thing he wanted to do. He had once been a soldier in the 9 th Batavian auxiliary cohort before being discharged after twenty-five years’ service. Marcus had found him sleeping rough on the streets of Rome and he had been one of the first veteran’s Marcus had helped to get back on his feet. In gratitude Indus, without being asked, had appointed himself Marcus’s bodyguard and now followed him everywhere he went. Kyna had a theory that Indus simply had not been able to adjust and cope with life outside the army after twenty-five years. He needed a routine and someone to tell him what to do she had said. Whatever the reason Marcus thought, as he turned and started out again, Indus was the only man whom he allowed to stay permanently at his hospice.

  Turning down a narrow side street just before the mausoleum of Augustus, Marcus grunted in pride as he caught sight of the front entrance of his small hospital. The building may not have the grandeur of Augustus’s mausoleum, but helping his fellow veterans off the streets and back onto their feet had meaning and gave him a purpose in life, a purpose that seemed to have grown more important the older he’d become. The veterans came from all backgrounds. Many had lost their army pensions to gambling, whoring, drinking or had been robbed and conned out of their pay-offs. Many were ill and not right in the head and had been deserted by their wives and families. Other’s had simply not known what to do after they had left the army. The only two full time employees of the hospital were himself and Kyna. Elsa would come by now and then when she could to provide the men with medical attention and apart from Indus, there were one or two veterans who helped with security. Early in the project Marcus had decided that he could only help military veterans who’d been giving an honourable discharge or a discharge based on wounds or illness. The hospital’s policy was not to accept any deserters, nor would it treat men who had visited once before. He simply did not have the resources to look after everyone whom showed up at his door. The deal was that he would provide the veterans with a roof over their heads for one night only, food, a small gift of money, counselling, medical attention and finally a list of contacts where the veterans could find work. After that they were on their own. The purpose was not to make them dependent on him but to give them a chance to start afresh. And it seemed to work most of the time. As he approached he glanced up. Above the doorway leading into the non-descript three-storey brick building a simple sign read - Marcus’s military veterans hospital.

  A man was standing outside the doorway trying to wash away the graffiti of a naked woman with large tits, which the local gang of youths had daubed onto the walls. He turned and, recognising Marcus, he hastily lowered his head in a respectful and courteous manner.

  Inside the hallway on the ground floor, Kyna was sitting at a table sifting through a mass of accounts, letters and receipts that lay scattered across the desk. She looked vigorous and in rude health, her skin a healthy brown. Spotting her husband, she sighed, rose and quickly came across to Marcus and gave him a hasty kiss on his cheek. She looked in fine shape for a woman in her late forties.

  “How is he?” Marcus asked running his hands affectionately through his wife’s hair.

  “Elsa is with him now,” Kyna replied, as concern crept into her voice. “She has done her best for him. She says that if he survives the coming night he will stand a chance of recovering but his fortune is evenly balanced. She says that death is close by. It could go either way.”

  Marcus nodded and looked away. Elsa was one of the most gifted medical experts he had ever come across and if she had done her best, then there was nothing more that could be done. The unconscious veteran had been brought in last night by two friends who had once passed through the hospice. They had found him in the street after someone had beaten him up. When he had been brought in, he had been in a very bad state.

  “It means breaking our rules,” Marcus muttered quietly, as he looked down at Kyna. “We only allow men to stay one night. It’s the golden rule.”

  “I know,” Kyna replied
looking down at her feet. “But he is near death. We can’t just throw him out onto the street. Not now that he has a chance.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and ran his hand across his face as he tried to make up his mind.

  “All right,” he whispered at last, turning to look at his wife, “He can stay but tell Elsa that she must keep this quiet. I don’t want the whole city knowing that we bend our own rules. We will be besieged by hordes of beggars. Our credibility will be in shreds and everyone will demand the same treatment.”

  “I have already told her,” Kyna said as a smile appeared on her lips. “She understands the situation.”

  “I thought I made the rules here,” Marcus snapped but there was no anger in his voice. Instead he held up his hand telling Kyna not to bother replying.

  “How many do we have staying tonight?” Marcus asked, looking away.

  “Seven and there is a new one waiting to be interviewed,” Kyna replied. “He says he was an auxiliary in one of Germanic units. Got a thick accent and he stinks. He is waiting for you in the office.”

  “Great,” Marcus replied, glancing at the closed door of his office. “A stinking German. Just what one needs for breakfast.”

  “Go and interrogate him and let me know if he is genuine,” Kyna said with a smile, pushing her husband towards the office door.

  * * *

  Marcus was alone in his office, sitting at his desk when Elsa appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted. In her hand, she was holding a small vial of liquid. Hastily Marcus rose to his feet.

  “Thank you for giving my patient a chance,” the young woman said as she lowered her eyes to the floor. “His fate is evenly balanced. We will know by tomorrow morning. I have prepared this potion for him. Make sure that you give it to him every two hours and see to it that his bandages are kept clean.”

  “We are lucky to enjoy your expertise, Elsa,” Marcus replied as he came across to her and affectionately touched her on the side of her shoulders. He had long ago recognised that Elsa’s devotion to the science of healing was genuine and her skill undoubted. But apart from becoming a midwife, everyone knew that she would not be allowed to practice her trade in public, for she was a woman and women working in medicine was frowned upon by society.