Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  “Sir, my name is Crispus,” the soldier said in good Latin, hastily gasping for breath. “You must be the new prefect. I have been expecting you Sir. Welcome to Resafa II.”

  “Thank you,” Fergus growled. “Who has been in command of this fort?”

  “Ah that would be me Sir,” Crispus replied in a sheepish voice. “After the death of previous prefect and his deputy the men elected me to be in command because I speak both Latin and the native Berber language Sir. You know what happened here don’t you Sir?”

  Fergus was silent for a moment as he studied Crispus. Then he switched his gaze towards the troopers lazing about in the courtyard of the fort.

  “The men elected you?” Fergus said at last, in a quiet disapproving voice. “What were your duties before the old prefect was murdered?”

  “Yes, I know it sounds rather odd Sir,” Crispus stammered as he blushed. “But that is how it happened. As to the previous prefect, I worked on his staff as his translator. I have been with the Seventh cavalry since it was first formed twenty-nine years ago in Carthage. The men they call me the great survivor Sir. That’s because I am the only soldier left from the original draft of men.”

  “Shouldn’t you have retired by now?” Fergus frowned.

  “Yes, I suppose so Sir,” Crispus said with a sigh, “But I don’t want to retire. The Seventh cavalry is my life and they need a translator so I guess that’s why they kept me on. The Numidians Sir, nearly all of them, do not speak or understand Latin. Most of the boys are just ignorant uneducated herdsmen and farmers. But they are not a bad bunch. I have spent many years with these Numidians Sir. My woman, bless her soul, was one of them. I know these people very well and I swear, they are the finest horsemen in the world.”

  Fergus grunted as he turned to stare at Crispus again. “There are no guards posted on either of the ramparts or the gates,” he growled. “If the enemy wanted to take this fort, they could simply ride straight through the front door and kill all of you. It’s a disgrace.”

  Nervously, Crispus licked his lips and turned to look up at the ramparts, awkwardly avoiding Fergus’s gaze. “They should have been up there,” he muttered with a confused expression. “I asked them to man the walls and they said that they were going to do it. Sorry, Sir, I don’t know what has happened. I will find out.”

  “No,” Fergus said sharply. “No need. Just show me to my quarters and see to it that the doctor here is provided with some accommodation.”

  “Sir,” Crispus said hastily as he rapped out a quick salute, “I can do that. If you would follow me Sir.”

  His quarters in the camp’s principia were nothing more than a large stale-smelling room with a camp bed in the far corner and a bare table, on which stood a jug of water. As he paused in the middle of the room and looked around, Fergus noticed the blood-stains on the mud-brick wall and the stifling, stale smell of urine and excrement. A few annoying flies were buzzing around his head. From the doorway Crispus was watching him anxiously.

  “I know it’s probably not what you are used to in Antioch,” Crispus said apologetically. “But the men, well, when they murdered the prefect, they stole all his belongings and furniture, down to his clothes and the rings on his fingers. It was brutal, Sir. They crucified him and let the sun slowly kill him.”

  Fergus nodded as he looked around the room. Then he turned towards Crispus.

  “How come you are still alive?” Fergus asked. “You are Roman. You were close to the prefect. Why did the mutineers not kill you?”

  “Ah,” Crispus sighed and hastily scratched his cheek, as with an embarrassed look he turned his head away from Fergus. “The truth Sir is that when they came for the prefect, I hid. And after that I ran away. I know it was not very noble Sir. Then after the men’s bloodlust had subsided I returned and they elected me as their commander. It was a crazy time Sir.”

  Fergus was silent as he gazed at Crispus. Then he took a deep breath.

  “I am sure it was but there is nothing dishonourable in what you did. I am glad you survived. I am going to need you to translate my orders to the men,” he said. “It’s a valuable skill you possess.”

  “Of-course Sir,” Crispus nodded hastily as a blush appeared on his cheeks.

  Fergus turned away so that his back was towards Crispus, as he completed his examination of his quarters.

  “I want the whole ala out on parade in the courtyard within the hour,” Fergus said quietly as he turned to look at Crispus. “Every man is to be present. Tell the troopers that I, their new commander, will be addressing them.”

  “Sir,” Crispus snapped, saluting smartly.

  * * *

  Fergus stood on top of the wooden barrel in the centre of the fort, his hands resting on his hips, as he gazed down in silence at the four hundred odd troopers who were standing before him. The men were grouped together into their sixteen individual cavalry squadrons and the decurion’s, the cavalry officers in charge of each squadron, were standing out in front of their soldiers. Across the parade ground utter silence reigned. They were his men now, his command, Fergus thought, as he allowed the silence to continue. To do with as he saw fit. The soldiers standing before him however looked in a very sorry state. Many of the Numidian soldiers were clad in civilian clothing and here and there a man was even missing his army boots. And he seemed to be short of six decurion’s and a standard bearer.

  “Is this everyone?” Fergus asked at last as he turned to Crispus who was standing beside him.

  “Ah well, yes,” Crispus replied, with an embarrassed look, “I think we are missing about twenty men who rode away to Palmyra a few days ago. They promised me they would be back soon but I am not sure when. Sorry Sir.”

  Fergus nodded but said nothing.

  “And it seems that we are missing one of the decurion’s Sir,” Crispus muttered, pointing towards one of the squadrons without a leader. “His name is Hiempsal. His brother was one of the executed ringleaders in the mutiny. I know he is here in the fort Sir. I saw him less than an hour ago.”

  “What?” Fergus growled turning to look at Crispus with an annoyed expression. “I want every man out on parade. Get that man out here so that I can see him.”

  It was a few minutes later when Crispus finally emerged with a man at his side, and as the two of them made their way through the ranks of silent troopers, Fergus sensed trouble coming towards him. Hiempsal was taller than his fellow Numidians and his darkish hands and arms were decorated with fine, colourful arm-bands and glittering rings. There was a contemptuous, defiant look in his eyes as, instead of taking his place in front of his squadron, he slowly walked up to where Fergus was standing. Then as the whole parade looked on, Hiempsal spat onto the ground in front of Fergus, raised his head and folded his arms across his chest and cried out something in a loud voice, speaking in his native language.

  “He says Sir,” Crispus stammered as he translated, “that he is Hiempsal, son of Jugurtha and that he will not serve any Roman officer, nor will he do any work for such a man.”

  Fergus said nothing as he stared at the defiant Numidian standing before him and, as the awkward silence lengthened, not a man moved across the parade ground. Then, ignoring Hiempsal Fergus turned to gaze at the four hundred odd men drawn up before him.

  “My name is Fergus and I am your new commanding officer. Your leader and prefect,” he cried out, as beside him Crispus swiftly translated his words. “The truth is that I did not want to come here,” Fergus shouted. “I left behind a fine wife and five daughters to come here and share this shit-hole of an outpost with you. I had better things to do. I did not want to be given command of a cohort that has disgraced itself. Yes, that’s what you have done. Your mutiny has brought shame to this unit. In Antioch, they have nothing but contempt for the Seventh Cavalry. You are a disgrace. You do not even look like soldiers - you leave your gates unguarded. I piss on that.” Fergus paused to allow Crispus to catch up, as he glared at the silent men drawn up in front of him
. “Where is your honour, where is your manhood?” Fergus suddenly roared. “You are soldiers for fuck’s sake! I have fought with real soldiers, real men and when I look around me, all I see is sloth, carelessness and overindulgence. But now that I am here I want you all to know that it is my intention to turn this ala - you lot, into the finest unit in the army. I want those arrogant fuckers in Antioch and our enemies to cry out, as they see us approach - “ah shit here come the damned Seventh Cavalry again.” That’s why I am here, to give you back your pride. That’s my job and that it what we are going to be doing together over the next few months. As of right now, we are going to have strict discipline in this camp. There will be no more drinking, no more unauthorised leave, no more quarrels, no more laziness. Every man will do their assigned job. There will be no exceptions.”

  As Fergus fell silent he jumped down from his barrel and, without hesitating strode straight towards the spot where Hiempsal was watching him with folded arms and a contemptuous, hostile look. When he was a yard away from the man Fergus paused and turned to look Hiempsal straight in the eye. And as the two men locked eyes, in a battle of wills, a strange cold determination seemed to take hold of Fergus. This was the moment. This was the moment when he either won the respect of his cohort or lost it forever. Hiempsal had challenged his authority in front of everyone and he could not allow that to stand. As the silence lengthened neither man seemed to back down, staring each other directly in the eye, like young male stags seeking silent dominance over the other. Soon the silence across the parade ground turned to minutes and still the epic contest of wills continued. Stoically Fergus continued to stare Hiempsal in the eye, willing him to back down. He was not going to lose this fight. He was not going to walk away. He was going to impose his authority. Hiempsal was going to learn to obey and, as he stared at Hiempsal, Fergus felt a simmering and growing rage. The only way back into Quietus’s company and the chance to fulfil the mission Hadrian had tasked him with was by turning this ala around and showing Quietus what he could do. Only then did he stand a chance at being recalled. His family were relying on him to succeed and, as he thought about the potential danger that Galena, his daughters and Marcus were in, a sudden surge of anger erupted.

  “Get the fuck back into position decurion,” Fergus roared furiously, as he pointed at the spot where Hiempsal should have been standing, directly in front of his squadron of troopers.

  And whether it was something in Fergus’s eye or his voice, Hiempsal suddenly looked away and reluctantly moved across the courtyard to take his place in front of his men. There had been no need for translation. The Numidian had understood and the battle of wills was over.

  For a moment Fergus did not move as he glared at Hiempsal but the decurion no longer seemed to have any appetite for a confrontation. Then slowly Fergus turned to gaze at the troopers standing in front of him. The men were staring into space and avoiding any eye contact.

  “Crispus,” Fergus cried out sternly, “dismiss the men and tell them that I shall be conducting a barracks inspection tomorrow at dawn. Also, I want to see all decurions in my quarters at once and assign one of the squadrons to guard-duty right away and get someone to close those fucking gates!”

  Chapter Fifteen - The Seventh Auxiliary Cavalry Ala of Numidians

  The eleven cavalry decurion’s, squadron commanders, stood in a silent semi-circle in Fergus’s quarters waiting for him to speak. They looked shabby and unprofessional Fergus thought, not a patch on the “O group meetings” that Titus, his old legionary centurion of the Twentieth, had led. Titus would not have tolerated the scruffy uniforms, the unshaven faces and the casual, relaxed attitude but Titus was not here. Fergus sighed, as he stood behind his table, leaning forwards; his hands resting on the wood; his head bowed to the ground. This was his command now and he would have to make the best with what he had got. But there was no denying that he had enjoyed his first taste of being in command of an entire ala. He had surprised himself by relished the confrontation and battle of wills with Hiempsal. Did that make him a good commander? He didn’t know but it had felt good to impose his authority after all the shit he’d had to endure. At his side, Crispus was standing stiffly to attention, his arms pressed against his sides as he stared into space.

  Slowly and silently Fergus straightened up and gazed across the room at his officers, staring each man in the eye, seeing whether they too, wanted to challenge his authority, but none did. As his gaze settled on Hiempsal, the decurion avoided him, choosing instead to avert his eyes. The man had completely lost his appetite to go through another lengthy battle of wills, which had just occurred outside in the parade ground and that was good Fergus thought. He was making progress.

  “If we are going to turnaround this unit and make the Seventh Cavalry the best and most envied ala in the army,” Fergus said at last in a quiet voice, allowing Crispus to translate, “I am going to need to know why you mutinied and killed your old commander. So, who wishes to explain to me what happened?”

  As Crispus fell silent the Numidian officers did not reply. Uneasily, several of them glanced at their compatriots.

  “Well?” Fergus growled as his gaze swept across his officers.

  Suddenly Hiempsal opened his mouth and spoke in his strange Berber language directing his attention towards Crispus with a resentful look.

  “He says Sir,” Crispus said hastily, turning to Fergus, “that the reason they mutinied was because the old prefect was sexually abusing some of the men Sir. He says that the prefect would come into their barracks and demand sex with them and that, if any man refused he would be flogged. That’s why they killed him Sir. They tried to complain about the prefect’s behaviour but there was no one who would listen. The situation became intolerable. The prefect was abusing his power.”

  “He was sexually abusing his men,” Fergus repeated, as he raised his eyebrows. “Is that your understanding as well, Crispus?”

  Crispus looked embarrassed. Then quickly he nodded. “It is Sir. The prefect had a habit of doing this. What Hiempsal is saying is the truth.”

  “I see,” Fergus muttered as he took a deep breath. “Tell them that I will not tolerate any abuse in the Seventh Cavalry, wherever it is sexual or just plain bullying. Any man caught abusing his position or his comrades will receive fifty lashes in front of the whole cohort. There will be no distinction between officers and men. Make sure that they understand that.”

  As Crispus started to translate, Fergus gazed solemnly at his men. So much for Quietus’s boast Fergus thought derisively - that he knew every single one of his subordinate commanders. That was a joke.

  Then, as Crispus finished and before Fergus could say anything else, another of the Numidian officers spoke up in an agitated sounding voice.

  “He says that he and all the men have not been paid for nearly a year Sir,” Crispus translated. “He wants to know when they will get paid.”

  “What?” Fergus frowned in surprise as he stared at the decurion who had spoken out. “They haven’t been paid? No mention of this was made back in Antioch. The flow of supplies to Resafa II seemed to be in order. How can they not have been paid? There must be records of payments being made, receipts, signed orders. The army is very careful and meticulous about such things. Pay chests do not go missing without someone noticing.”

  Before Crispus had a chance to translate, the Numidian was speaking again and raising his hands in an agitated manner.

  “Sir,” Crispus said, clearing his throat, “he says that the cohort’s standard-bearer was in charge of the unit’s pay chest. The standard bearer told him that the cohort’s pay was indeed delivered as promised but that the old prefect took all the money for himself. The commander robbed his own men Sir.”

  Fergus groaned and shook his head in dismay. “And where is the standard-bearer now?” he snapped.

  “He was one of the men whom was executed Sir,” Crispus stammered, “after the mutiny had been crushed.”

  “Great,” Ferg
us muttered.

  “The thing is Sir,” Crispus said in a tight voice, “the pay chest for nearly five hundred men is large. Now I am sure that the old prefect will have spent some of the money but out here in the desert there is not much that a man can spend his money on. So, I suspect that the prefect was saving the money Sir, building up a pension-pot, if you can call it that.”

  Fergus pricked up and quickly turned to look at Crispus.

  “You mean that the pay chest may still be around here somewhere? You think the prefect may have hidden the money?”

  “That’s right Sir,” Crispus nodded, “that’s my guess.”

  “Ask them if they have any ideas about where the man could have hidden the money,” Fergus snapped, gesturing at his officers.