Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  The games had progressed to the boxing competitions when Fergus suddenly noticed Publius Acilius Attianus. The old childhood guardian and friend of Hadrian, now sixty-one years old and who had helped to raise the young boy after the death of his parents, had entered their section of the stands and was making his way towards Hadrian. He looked grave and stern like a thunder storm that had appeared on a bright sunny day. Fergus cleared his throat and hastily tapped Hadrian on his shoulder.

  “Sir, look who it is,” Fergus said leaning forwards.

  “Ah,” Hadrian grunted as he turned and caught sight of Attianus. “Now what does the old fossil want?”

  Fergus studied Attianus as he approached. There was something of the night about Attianus, something evil and unnatural, that scared most of Hadrian’s friends and made Vibia suffer sleepless nights. The strict and cantankerous old man was not one for petty conversation and it was rumoured that he kept a death list of all of Hadrian’s enemies, to be executed once Hadrian became emperor. Nor did he suffer fools lightly and his fierce, violent temper was legendary. When at the age of ten, both Hadrian’s parents had died, it had been Trajan and Attianus who had been appointed as Hadrian’s joint guardians. It had been Trajan and Attianus who had raised Hadrian and the relationship had endured into adulthood and now, nearly thirty years later Attianus was still at Hadrian’s side. The old fossil as Hadrian liked to call him may be a nasty piece of work Fergus thought but you could not accuse Attianus of being disloyal to his former charge.

  “Attianus, this is a surprise,” Hadrian said, rising from his seat as his former guardian came up to him. “What brings you to the games?”

  “This,” Attianus grunted as he shoved a tightly rolled scroll under Hadrian’s nose. “This arrived today via an imperial messenger. It’s from Trajan. Addressed to you.”

  For a moment, Hadrian stared at the letter in Attianus’s hand. Then with a resigned sigh, he took it and glanced at the broken imperial seal. “Have you read it?” he asked quickly, looking up at Attianus.

  Attianus nodded. “Trajan has ordered you to Antioch,” he rasped. “You are to leave immediately. In Syria, you are to start the preparations for war with Parthia. Trajan says he will join you in Antioch at the start of the new year. Congratulations Hadrian, the emperor has promoted you to Legate. You are to oversee all the logistical arrangements for the coming Parthian war and I am to liaise between you and the emperor on all official government issues.”

  Hadrian lowered his eyes as he took in the news and for a long moment he seemed to be lost in thought.

  “War with Parthia,” Hadrian said at last in a gutted voice that could not hide his disappointment, “So I am to leave Greece. That’s a pisser.”

  “Stay for the celebrations tomorrow and the sacrifice to Zeus,” one of Hadrian’s Greek intellectual friends called out. “If the emperor is only going to join you early next year then what is the rush to head for Antioch.”

  “Yes Hadrian,” another of his Greek friends interjected, “Stay at least until after the offering to Zeus. The crowds will love you if they see you at the sacrifice.”

  But Hadrian shook his head in a sad manner. “No,” he replied, looking down at the imperial letter, “No, I would love to stay my friends, but Trajan needs me and to Antioch I must go. This is my chance. This war with Parthia is going to change things and I must get it right. I must do a good job.”

  Turning to Fergus, Hadrian nodded hastily.

  “Let’s go, gather your men,” Hadrian said, “We leave for Athens tonight. I don’t want to waste any time.”

  Chapter Six – Eponymous Archon of Athens

  The city of Athens baked in the noon heat. The troop of weary horsemen clattered noisily down the wide-paved street, forcing a few of the pedestrians to hastily step out of the way. Hadrian looked pensive and in a world of his own as he ignored the occasional cry and greeting from the people when they recognised him. At his side Adalwolf was gazing ahead with a weary, resigned look. Hadrian’s Germanic friend and adviser had been suffering from a fever and it had made him cranky and ill-tempered. Following them came Fergus and his close protection team, clad in dusty travelling cloaks that concealed the huge array of weapons which they were carrying. And at the rear of the entourage, guarded by Flavius the German boxer and Arlyn, the tall red-haired Hibernian, came Vibia Sabina, riding alone in a small carriage, surrounded by her female slaves, the party’s baggage and a few attendants.

  Fergus looked tired and his horse was lathered in sweat. Hadrian had been true to his word when he’d said that he didn’t wish to waste any time. From the moment, they had left the Olympic games in the Peloponnese, he had set a furious pace and had barely paused to rest. But now they were nearly home and the thought of seeing Galena again had raised Fergus’s spirits. His wife and five daughters, together with their two Dacian slave girls, had been on holiday in the resort town of Baiae, near Naples for the past two months. And if their ship had sailed on time and the winds were favourable, they were expected to arrive back in Athens tomorrow or the day after.

  Tiredly Fergus turned to glance at the fine-looking stoas that flanked the street on both sides. The covered walkways, held up by a line of white columns, stretched away down the street, like an honour guard welcoming them home. The walkways, shaded from the fierce sun, were crowded with noisy pedestrians, shoppers and shopkeepers advertising their wares and services in loud, brash voices. Fergus however could not understand what they were saying for it was all in Greek. Taking a deep breath, he caught the distinctive smell of jasmine and rotting garbage. The gate of Athena Archegetis that led into the Roman agora, the new public market place, was behind him. Up ahead Fergus could see the magnificent temples, libraries and public buildings that were concentrated in the ancient agora, the old city centre. Hadrian had a house near to the Strategeion, the spot to where the ancient generals of Athens, the ten strategoi, had once come to discuss matters of finance, politics and foreign policy. It was not far to go now. And as he turned his head to look to his left, Fergus caught sight of the splendid and truly magnificent Acropolis, the pride of Athens. The ancient citadel had been built on the large, rocky outcrop that rose above the city and dominated the skyline. Standing on top of the Acropolis the white gleaming columns of the Parthenon, the temple and home of the Athena, the protector of Athens was instantly recognisable.

  For five years now Athens had been his home. Hadrian absolutely loved Greece and Fergus was convinced that, given the choice, his boss would never want to leave. But Fergus had found the Greeks to be rather effeminate, petty and weak, obsessed with proving themselves right and constantly squabbling with each other. They were not like the dour, plain but solid and tough northern Celts and Germanic tribesmen he admired and with whom he’d grown up in Britannia and had met along the Danube frontier. But Galena loved Athens and that had been enough for Fergus. His wife loved the heat, the constant sunlight and the wonderful history. She had learned to write and read and had become an avid fan of Greek theatre with its drama’s, comedies and tragedies. According to Galena their first posting at Aquincum on the Danube, where Hadrian had been governor, had been rather provincial compared to Athens.

  In the wide street ahead, a man suddenly stepped out from the covered walkways and prostrated himself before Hadrian, crying out words that Fergus didn’t understand. Hadrian however paid the man lying on the ground no attention and smoothly and silently steered his horse around the supplicant. Fergus slowly shook his head as he too passed the prostrated man. The Greeks were all emotion and little self-respect he thought. Last year Trajan had appointed Hadrian, “Eponymous Archon of Athens,” in effect the city’s ruler and mayor. Hadrian had also been elected an Athenian citizen and he’d studied under the great stoic philosopher Epictetus. As “Eponymous Archon” Hadrian had gone about his job with gusto, sitting in on commercial rulings, handing out privileges, taking part in public debates, sparring with philosophers and becoming a leading art and theatre
critic. And that might all be well for a Greek statesman, Fergus thought with a tinge of contempt, but such pursuits were not what a Roman emperor was supposed to do. To him, a Roman emperor was a man who commanded the admiration of his troops and personally led them into battle, like the consuls of the Roman republic had once done, hundreds of years before, in the time of the republic.

  As the troop of riders finally clattered into the courtyard of Hadrian’s house, a gaggle of slaves hastily appeared with water and refreshments for their master and the parched, hungry and weary riders and their horses. The house was surrounded by a high, formidable white-washed wall and the place looked like a fortress. Hadrian’s Greek house-guards were responsible for security in the house. It was their job to protect Hadrian whilst he was at home but Fergus still assigned one of his team to always stay close to Hadrian, rotating them through three-hour shifts. And now it was Flavius’s turn to provide close protection. Handing his deputy, the week’s guard schedules, Fergus dismissed the rest of his team, handed his horse to a slave, and was about to head towards his personal quarters, when a servant came rushing up to him, holding something in his hand. The man said something in Greek and then bowed and handed Fergus a tightly-rolled and sealed scroll. Fergus frowned as he looked down at the letter. He didn’t get many letters. Had it come from Galena? Was she all right? Gripping the scroll in his hand he entered the house, headed for his rooms and closed the door behind him. The rooms were blissfully quiet now that his five loud and active daughters were not there. He was alone. Turning to study the scroll, he suddenly recognised his father’s seal and as he did, he swore softly. The letter had come all the way from Rome. His father, Marcus, barely never wrote to him. The relationship between the two of them had become rather strained after he had told Marcus that he was taking the bodyguard job with Hadrian. He understood why of course. His father had thrown his lot in with the War Party who were bitter rivals of Hadrian. But despite ending up in different political camps, he and Marcus had managed to maintain a relationship of sorts. But all correspondence with his family in Rome or Vectis was through his mother Kyna. Why had Marcus written to him?

  Breaking the seal, he unrolled the scroll and started to read.

  To Fergus, my son, from Marcus, your father, greetings

  I regret that I have not made much effort to write to you, son. The fault is mine and mine alone. Please forgive me. I trust that you and your girls are well and are prospering. We are once more in Rome for the season, staying in the house that I purchased on the Janiculum hill. You may remember it from your last visit. But to get to the point. I write to you with some bad news, urgent news, son. Your mother, Kyna has been struck down by an evil illness and confined to her bed. She is poorly and growing weaker by the day and the doctors are not optimistic. I ask you therefore to come to Rome to see your mother right away. She has asked for you and I do not know what to tell her. Please son, come to Rome immediately. Do not delay. I fear Kyna has not much time left in this world.

  Marcus to his son Fergus

  “Oh shit,” Fergus muttered as he lowered the letter, rolled his eyes and turned to stare blankly into the room. This was bad and unexpected news indeed.

  If his mother was dying he needed to go but, he would need to ask Hadrian’s permission and with everything that was going on he wasn’t sure he would get it. Nevertheless, he had to ask his boss. His mother was dying and if she was calling for him then he needed to go to Rome right away.

  Hastily rolling up the letter, Fergus stuffed it into his tunic and left his quarters in search of Hadrian. The house was large but eventually he found his boss in his study, gazing silently and fondly at his extensive library of Greek books and manuscripts. Flavius was standing guard at the door and gave Fergus a weary, bored glance.

  “Sir,” Fergus said in a polite voice as he entered the study, “Sir, can I have a word with you, it’s important.”

  “You can always speak to me Fergus,” Hadrian said with a tired and depressed voice, “We have no secrets from each other. What is it?”

  “I just received a letter from my father in Rome,” Fergus began, as he lowered his eyes to the ground, “He writes that my mother is dangerously ill. She may be dying Sir. So, I would like to request immediate leave to go to Rome and be with her. She is my mother, Sir.”

  “Your mother is ill,” Hadrian frowned as he turned to look at Fergus. “I am sorry to hear that Fergus but granting you leave to visit her in Rome is out of the question. We are set to leave for Antioch in a few days and I need you at my side. I am sorry but the answer is no.”

  “It’s my mother Sir,” Fergus repeated. “She has asked for me. If she is dying I should be at her side, don’t you agree Sir.”

  “No, I don’t,” Hadrian snapped as he fixed Fergus with an annoyed look. “Do you think I am going to enjoy leaving all these fine books behind. Do you think I am happy to be leaving Greece? I am not but I have my orders and I must do my duty as do you. Your duty is to be at my side, covering my arse and that is what you will be doing. I am sorry for your mother but the answer is still no and will remain no.”

  “Sir,” Fergus said as he rapped out a salute and hastily turned away, so that his boss would not see the annoyed, angry look that had appeared on his face.

  As Fergus left the room he heard a faint muffled noise from the doorway and turning, he saw Flavius mouthing, “he’s a prick,” to him.

  * * *

  Two full days had passed since the party had returned to Athens and Fergus was depressed. Hadrian’s refusal to let him go was tearing him apart, but there was nothing he could do about it. To add to his misery there had still been no sighting of the ship that was bringing Galena and his daughters back home from Baiae. It was morning and the house was busy and full of activity as Hadrian’s staff prepared for the long sea voyage that would take them to Antioch. Fergus stood in Hadrian’s study near his boss’s precious book shelves and silently looked on as Hadrian, Adalwolf, Attianus and a few of Hadrian’s other close advisers and supporters of the Peace Party, poured over a large map that was spread across the table. The men including Hadrian were all sporting beards for it was a fashion that Hadrian had started amongst the supporters of the peace party. Hadrian had argued that the sexes should not be confused and that a man should not deny something which the Gods had given to him. It had given Galena endless cause for amusement but it had not stopped Fergus from growing his own short beard. Officially he was not part of the official war council or Hadrian’s inner circle of advisers but he had to be present at these meetings to know what security issues to expect.

  “Eleven legions and an equivalent number of auxiliary units,” Quintus Sosius Senecio, a military man who had held high command in Dacia, exclaimed. “Trajan is asking for a lot. The legions and garrisons already in the east will not be enough. That means we will have to take men from the garrisons along the Danube and in Dacia. It will leave those provinces dangerously exposed.”

  “It has to be done,” Hadrian growled, as he studied the map. “Trajan has ordered us to concentrate the army at a place called Satala. It’s here on the Euphrates, on the border with Armenia,” Hadrian said, tapping the map with his finger. “Have messengers despatched at once to every single army unit along the Danube as far north as Aquincum. I want them to organise and send me their vexillations as soon as possible. We need to be ready and in position by late January next year at the latest. That is when Trajan is expected to arrive in Antioch.”

  “It will be done,” Senecio replied sharply. “But what about supplies? An army of this size is going to be expensive and difficult to maintain in the field and many of the units are going to have to march half-way across the empire.”

  Hadrian remained silent for a moment, as he studied the map. Then abruptly he looked up at Senecio. “The local provincial governors will have to supply the troops with grain and supplies,” he snapped. “Have them informed of this and I will not accept any exceptions. Everyone must do th
eir bit and there will be no compensation. Rome is going to war!”

  “I am sure that Nigrinus and his War Party are delighted,” Marcus Aemiulius Papus said sourly as he looked up at Hadrian. “This whole campaign has their fingers all over it. No doubt they convinced Trajan to do this. But the emperor is badly advised if he thinks that we have limitless resources. What is this war going to achieve anyway, except to feed the ego’s and the influence of Nigrinus and his hawks? A better strategy would be to consolidate, invest in our fixed defences in the east and elsewhere and strengthen our buffer states and client kingdoms. Rome already owns all the land in the world that really matters. There is no need to extend the frontiers even further. Now we run the danger of a strategic over reach.”

  “Well spoken, my friend,” Aulus Platorius Nepos said with a little smile. “But don’t let Trajan hear you say that. He may accuse you of abandoning and betraying Jupiter’s command to the Roman people to go out and conquer the world. Don’t underestimate the religious card which our opponents can play. The people like victories; they like it when men add to the greatness of Rome.”

  “They are not going to get victories,” Papus retorted. We’re going to be marching into an endless wasteland, whilst our enemy melts away before us only to re-appear and attack our lines of supply and communication. This is going to be a war of raids and counter raids, an insurgency - not great battles. Anyway, that’s what I would do if I was the enemy and faced with the might of eleven fucking legions.”

  “That’s enough from both of you,” Hadrian growled. “Trajan has given us a job to do and I intend to do it well. There will be no more talk of defeat. Let Nigrinus and his War Party have their day, but if things start to go wrong we will be there to advise Trajan on what to do next.” Hadrian straightened up and turned to look at his companions. “Don’t worry gentlemen,” he said quietly, “our day will come and remember what the ultimate prize is here. It’s not victory in the east; it is me being named the next, fucking emperor of Rome. That is our only goal.”