The bridge leading onto the large island in the Orontes river was guarded by a squad of Praetorian guardsmen. As Fergus crossed the bridge, he noticed that the river was swollen and close to bursting its banks. The island ahead was dominated by the huge structure of the imperial palace and beside it stood the long and narrow Hippodrome. The royal district as the locals liked to call it, was surrounded by a massive wall that ran alongside the banks of the island, creating an impregnable looking bastion defended by water and stone. At the main entrance gates into the palace another squad of Praetorian guards were on duty. Showing them his official pass and documents, Fergus entered the vast grounds of the palace and was escorted to the block of rooms where Quietus had made his HQ.
Inside the large room that served as the HQ a few tribunes, young fresh-faced aristocratic men clad in their tribune’s uniforms, were sitting at their desks poring over documents and letters. The young officers were chatting to each other in excited, eager voices. No one seemed to notice Fergus, as he stood in the entry hallway, looking slightly lost as he tried to spot Quietus. It was a few minutes later when Lusius Quietus finally appeared, striding into the room through another doorway. As he came into the room, the tribunes abruptly went silent and swiftly rose to their feet, their arms pressed tightly against the sides of their bodies.
“At ease,” Quietus called out as he, accompanied by one of his legionary legates, strode over to a desk beside the wall from which hung a huge map of Rome’s eastern provinces and the Parthian frontier. Quietus was indeed a small man Fergus thought, as he eyed him carefully. He looked around forty.
“Sir, Centurion Fergus reporting for duty Sir,” Fergus snapped, as he strode into the room and saluted smartly in front of Quietus. “I was ordered to report to you Sir. Here are my orders,” he added as with a stiff straight arm he extended the letter of introduction, which Hadrian had given him.
Quietus turned and for a moment he did not reply as he gazed at Fergus, looking him up and down with his calm and clear-blue eyes.
“Ah yes - Hadrian’s man,” the general said at last, in an accent which Fergus had never heard before. “I was informed about you. Seems that you have been assigned to me to manage all our supplies and logistics. Is that correct Fergus?”
“That’s correct Sir,” Fergus replied stiffly.
“We shall see,” Quietus replied as he took the scroll from Fergus’s hand and broke the seal. “Welcome to Taskforce Red, centurion,” Quietus said in a voice used to giving orders. “Under my command I have two full legions, several independent auxiliary cohorts and my precious five thousand Numidian light-horsemen. That’s nearly twenty thousand men and over ten thousand horses and pack animals who need to be fed, watered and supplied every single day. That’s a big job, a lot of responsibility. Do you think you can handle it Fergus?”
“I can Sir,” Fergus replied.
Abruptly Quietus looked up at Fergus, his eyes suddenly as sharp and deadly as a hunting-eagle that had spotted its prey.
“Really,” Quitus snapped. “Have you ever managed the supplies of an army of this size before Fergus?”
“I have not Sir,” Fergus replied, lowering his eyes and struggling to contain a blush from spreading to his cheeks.
“So maybe you can’t handle the job,” Quietus growled, glaring at Fergus. “Maybe you are just another useless mouth who thinks he can do anything because he knows a few important people. I do not tolerate fools, braggers and useless mouths in my army. We shall soon know if you are one of them.”
Fergus stood stiffly to attention and did not reply.
In front of him, Quietus contemptuously shook his head and started to read Hadrian’s letter.
“Father served in an auxiliary cohort, 2 nd Batavian’s in Britannia and on the Danube; became full Roman citizen on honourable discharge,” Quietus said, reading and summarising aloud from the letter. “You joined the Twentieth Legion at Deva Victrix, at eighteen.” Quietus raised his eyebrows, “Well you certainly knew what you wanted to do Fergus, I give you that.” Taking a deep breath, Quietus continued reading from the letter. “Promoted to decanus, noted for his leadership skills; was part of the company who captured and killed Arvirargus, fugitive Briton rebel leader.” Quietus turned to his legate and frowned. “Who the fuck was Arvirargus, never heard of him, have you?” The legate grinned and shrugged in reply. “After that you were sent to the Rhine frontier and then the Danube, where you were promoted to tesserarius. Ah,” Quietus exclaimed, “now I see the connection with Hadrian. You were part of the escort that went with him on the diplomatic mission to the Vandals. Seems your patron got himself into a bit of trouble in Germania.” Quietus lowered the letter and gazed across at Fergus, who was still rigidly standing to attention and staring into space. “Maybe you should have just left Hadrian to die out there in those German forests. It would have saved us all a lot of grief.”
Fergus licked his lips but said nothing, as he sensed Quietus’s crafty eyes studying him, trying to trick and bate him into a reaction.
“So, after that, let’s see,” Quietus said, as he returned to reading the letter. “Promoted optio on your return from Germania. Then it seems you took part in the Dacian war. I was there too.” Quietus paused as he studied the letter in silence. Then he frowned. “From this letter, it seems you did well in Dacia, Fergus, your superior officer’s all agree that you are a first-class soldier and commander of men but there is no promotion to centurion. In fact, you seem to have preferred to leave the army and become one of Hadrian’s bodyguards. Now why the fuck would you want to do something stupid like that?”
“I have not left the army Sir,” Fergus replied clearing his throat. “I am just on long term secondment. I am still a member of the Twentieth Legion.”
“Long term secondment,” Quietus repeated the words slowly, as he gazed at Fergus with an intimidating and incredulous expression. For a long moment, the general remained silent as he studied Fergus carefully. “You know I have seen dozens of these letters in my time,” Quietus snapped at last. “And I can judge a man very quickly and you Fergus belong in the category - has potential but allows himself to be swayed by ambitions out of his reach, so he is still a dumb ass category.”
Fergus did not reply, as he stoically gazed into space. Quietus seemed to be testing him, trying to get a reaction.
“So,” Quietus said irritably placing the letter on the table and turning to stare at Fergus, “Hadrian has sent you to me to manage my supplies and logistics and yet you have not a single bit of experience in managing such work. Don’t you think that is rather odd Fergus? Why do you think Hadrian chose you for this job?”
“I can do the job Sir, I will not let you down,” Fergus replied stiffly. “I served Hadrian well and I will serve you well Sir.”
Quietus slowly shook his head with growing contempt, as he refused to release Fergus from his eagle-eyed gaze.
“Say that one more time centurion and I shall have you whipped in front of all my staff,” Quietus snarled. “Managing the supplies of my army is a hugely important job. My fortune and that of my men depends on it being handled competently or else we all die. So, if you think that I am going to hand over that responsibility to a man who has no experience in these matters, but tells me he can nevertheless do the job, then you are insane and one of the biggest dumb asses that I have ever known.”
Fergus nearly flinched from the angry verbal barrage but he managed to keep his composure.
“Look around you,” Quietus bellowed, indicating the silent staff officers and tribunes standing at their desks. “I know all these men inside out. I know all my centurions. I know their names, their strengths and weaknesses. I know how far I can push each one of them and I would entrust my life to each one of them. That’s because in my army we don’t tolerate fools and useless mouths. But you,” Quietus raised his hand and pointed a finger directly at Fergus, “I don’t know you. You are a stranger. You are Hadrian’s man. So, what am I going to do wi
th you?”
Fergus tensed. The interview seemed to be reaching its climax and he didn’t like the direction in which this conversation was going.
“As it seems that I cannot send you back to Hadrian,” Quietus snapped, “and you are not qualified to handle the role you have been assigned, I have a better position in mind for you Fergus. I am making you the prefect of the Seventh Auxiliary Cavalry Ala of Numidians. They are based out in the desert at our outpost at Resafa II along the road from Sura to Palmyra. They have had some trouble recently in that unit and morale is low. Get out there and restore order to my troops. Get them fighting fit and battle ready. I am going to need those men when the invasion of Armenia begins. There is a trade caravan leaving from the eastern gate for Resafa II later today. Make sure that you are with them when they leave. I shall have your official orders signed and ready for you within the hour.”
Quietus’s hard eyes seemed to be boring straight into Fergus’s head. “Now get out of my sight. I do not wish to hear from you or see your face again until you have earned my trust and respect.”
Chapter Fourteen – Into the Desert
The Syrian desert stretched away to the horizon - a flat, bleak, gravelly wasteland. If it had not been for the straight Roman road, with its familiar mile-stones, that cut across the low ridge, Fergus would have felt completely lost and disorientated. It was morning and the large caravan of merchants with their drivers, slaves, horse drawn wagons and columns of heavily laden camels were plodding along. The camel trains were all fastened to each other by ropes and guarded by mounted and armed men. The caravan was slowly heading southwards, deeper into the desert, on the road to the desert city of Palmyra and away from the Euphrates river. Fergus looked tired as he sat upon his horse and stoically gazed down the bleak, featureless road. His uniform, cloak and armour were covered in ten days of dust and grime and his cheeks were rough and unshaven whilst his lips were cracked and bone dry. He was wearing his plumed centurion’s helmet and a red and white Bedouin keffiyeh was wrapped tightly around half his face, covering his mouth, chin, neck and nose. He’d been on the road from Antioch for what seemed an age but two nights ago had been the first that he’d spent camped out in the desert itself. To his surprise the night had been bitterly cold. It had made him realise that he had a lot to learn about the desert and he had to do so quickly. Idly Fergus glanced at the fat figure of Eutropius, the old Greek civilian doctor, who was riding his horse alongside him and with whom he had become friends. Early on he had discovered that by coincidence the doctor was travelling to Resafa II as well. Eutropius had told Fergus that he was on one of his regular medical rounds along the Roman desert outposts, for which he was paid. Fergus had been surprised to learn that along this section of the frontier the army was relying on civilian doctors to maintain the health of their troops. Eutropius had said it was because of the harsh conditions. The system worked well, the doctor had insisted. Eutropius had proved to be a fantastic authority and source of information about the desert. And Fergus had been glad of his company. It had prevented him from thinking too much about the disastrous start to his new job and the depressing thought that he would not be seeing Galena and his girls for a long time.
Carefully Fergus glanced again at the doctor. Eutropius had come prepared for the desert. His whole body and every possible part of his skin was covered in white cloth and robes and he was wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat. Like Fergus, half his face was covered by a white Bedouin shawl that hid his mouth, chin, neck and nose. The clothes were to minimise his body’s water loss through sweating, the doctor had explained, and the white colour helped reflect the sun’s heat.
“We should reach Resafa II in a few hours. It’s not far now,” Eutropius said in a cheerful voice.
“How do you know?” Fergus asked sourly, “How can you tell where you are in this featureless desert?”
“Instinct and experience,” Eutropius grinned, giving Fergus a wink. “You may think that it’s a featureless wasteland but there are markers, if you know where to look.”
Fergus raised his eyebrows and turned to look away. This was his first time in the desert and it was a bewildering, alien place that did nothing to improve his mood. In Antioch after he’d been grilled by Quietus, he had thought matters had gone from bad to worse but it was only after speaking to Eutropius that he had realised the full true extent of the shit he’d managed to get himself into. Eutropius had informed him that the unit of which he was now the commander - the Seventh Cavalry Ala of Numidians were languishing at their desert outpost in disgrace. The cohort had mutinied and murdered their Roman prefect and his deputy and as punishment Quietus had ordered that the ringleaders of the mutiny be executed and that the whole cohort, five hundred strong, should undergo “decimation.” One in ten of the soldiers had been chosen at random and had been beaten to death by their comrades. Morale had plummeted according to Eutropius and so had the military effectiveness of the unit, so much so that he’d heard rumours that the cohort was on the brink of being disbanded and its soldiers sent home with a dishonourable discharge. And this, Fergus thought unhappily, was the unit which he was supposed to turnaround and lick into shape in a matter of months. He’d inquired what the reason for the mutiny had been but Eutropius had shrugged and replied that he didn’t know. All he knew about the actual mutiny was that the Numidians had crucified their commander. They had left him to die slowly in the sun before they had mutilated his body and fed his remains to the desert scavengers.
A sudden commotion and cries up ahead jerked Fergus out of his day dreaming. Some of the mounted guards and camel drivers were shouting to each other and pointing at something in the distance. And, as he turned to gaze in the direction in which the men were pointing, Fergus’s eyes widened in shock and his face went pale. Filling the horizon and seemingly racing towards them, was a huge wall of thick billowing, yellow sand, nearly a mile high.
“Sandstorm,” Eutropius hissed in alarm at Fergus’s side, as he hastily slid from his horse. “Quick, we must tie the horses together and cover their eyes. Hurry, that monster moves fast. It will be on us shortly.”
As Fergus quickly dismounted, the caravan around him had descended into frantic activity as men rushed to prepare themselves and their animals for the approaching storm.
“Keep your mouth and eyes covered,” Eutropius hissed, as he flung a rope around Fergus’s horse and lashed the beast to his own. “When the storm hits, get down on the ground and don’t move and keep breathing. It will feel like you are about to suffocate but you won’t, not if you do what I tell you.”
“What about the horses?” Fergus snapped, as he eyed the approaching storm anxiously.
“They are used to these storms,” Eutropius retorted, as he finished lashing the horses together and turned to look around for shelter, but there was none along the low and open ridge. “We will turn their backs into the storm,” he called out as he snatched a hasty look at the wall of sand rolling towards them, “but if they make a run for it just let them go. Look after yourself first. Let’s hope this storm does not last long.”
Eutropius was crouching on the ground, nearly bent double, his back turned into the wind as the deafening, thunderous rolling-wall of sand and flying debris came roaring over him, swallowing him up. Instantly Fergus lost sight of his friend and the horses, even though they were less than two yards away. Everything disappeared - the desert, the sun, the road, the caravan, everything. The temperature plummeted and the air was thick with sand and he could barely breath. Desperately Fergus struggled to contain a rising panic. Stay down, don’t move, cover your face. Do it, a voice was screaming in his head. Do it! Do it! This was like nothing he had ever experienced before. This was terrifying. The air had become unbreathable, threatening to choke him and suffocate him in sand and the noise of the howling, rushing storm was overwhelming. Not daring to move, Fergus huddled on the ground, his head pressed against his chest; his hands clutching at his Keffiyeh that covered his face and m
outh. Faintly he thought he heard the horses stamping their hooves violently on the ground. Then suddenly he winced as he was struck in the back by a flying stone and then another. Just as he thought it couldn’t get any worse, something struck him painfully on the head, on his helmet. Fuck, he wanted to scream but despite the pain he did not dare open his mouth. The violence of the storm was horrendous, the noise deafening and, as he huddled helplessly on the ground, Fergus lost his sense of time. Then suddenly it was all over. In disbelief, Fergus stayed where he was, but around him all was suddenly quiet and peaceful. Carefully opening one eye, Fergus blinked, cautiously raised his head and caught sight of the sun in the clear blue sky. Beside him a mound of sand suddenly stirred and then, with a contemptuous and abrupt movement, Eutropius rose onto his feet, looking around him. As he did so, he sent a heap of sand, stones and dust tumbling away in every direction.
“Welcome to the desert my friend,” the old Greek doctor said with a grin, as he stretched out a hand to help Fergus onto his feet.
* * *
The desert outpost of Resafa II was nothing more than a small oasis in the stony, featureless desert. In every direction, the wastelands stretched away to the horizon, barren, dry and forbidding. As he and Eutropius trotted towards the main gates of the rectangular, mud-brick fort, Fergus turned to gaze at the palm trees and tall green reeds that formed the heart of the desert oasis. Amongst the trees he could see a few dusty and distinctive Bedouin tents. Close by, a Bedouin boy was guarding a herd of goats, armed with a stick and in the distance, he could hear a couple of barking dogs. The cavalry fort was protected by a high wall and at each corner a tall watchtower poked up into the sky, but along the ramparts and in the towers, he could see no one on guard duty. As he approached the open gates, Fergus noticed that they too were unguarded. Riding into the camp Fergus quickly dismounted and turned to look around. Lining the inside of the walls, the dreary barrack rooms, the contubernia, stretched away towards the far end of the fort, some two hundred yards away. A group of scruffy, half-dressed troopers were sitting on the ground drinking, laughing and lazing about in the sun whilst further away a few soldiers were standing around in a semi-circle, gazing down at two, half-naked men who were wrestling with one another. No one seemed to acknowledge his arrival or pay him any attention. Fergus took a deep unhappy breath and was about to hand his horse’s reins to Eutropius, when a man hastened across the open courtyard towards him, stopped and saluted smartly. The soldier was old, around fifty, with a deeply tanned and wrinkled face and his white hair was closely cropped.
Armenia Capta Page 13
