Hastily Crispus did as he was asked, but as he studied his men, Fergus could see that the Numidian officers didn’t seem to know anything more than he did.
“Do they have any further complaints or issues that they wish to raise with me,” Fergus said as he gazed at the Numidians.
As Crispus finished translating another decurion raised his arm in the air and spoke in a rapid-fire voice, directing his attention towards the translator.
“Ah, yes there is one more thing Sir,” Crispus said in a delicate voice. “He says that few of them have seen a woman in many, many months. He wants to know when they will be granted some leave to visit Palmyra or Sura.”
“You mean that the men have not had a shag for a long time,” Fergus growled as he stared at the decurion who had spoken.
“I believe that is what he is saying Sir,” Crispus replied quickly.
Behind his table Fergus nodded, and for a moment, he was silent. He knew what that felt like.
“All right,” he said at last turning to Crispus, “tell them that I have heard their concerns and that I shall be doing something about it. In the meantime, I expect every officer in the Seventh Cavalry to act like an officer and instil discipline in their men. I mean it when I say that we are going to turn the Seventh Cavalry into the finest cavalry ala in the army and that turnaround starts right now and right here. And make sure that the men are assigned their daily work and duty rosters at dawn tomorrow. And if any of them should have a problem they are to report straight away to me. Make sure they get that message, Crispus.”
“Yes Sir,” Crispus said, as he hastily started to translate.
* * *
It was deep into the night and Fergus and Crispus were still awake, sitting together at the table in Fergus’s quarters, going through the cohort’s paperwork. A couple of candles stood on the desk together with a jug of watered-down wine, some flat bread and two bowls of half-eaten meat stew that had gone cold. In the flimsy candle-light Fergus was studying a list. He looked exhausted and, across from him Crispus looked half asleep, his head resting against his hand. Piled up between them on the desk lay a large collection of scrolls and army records, supply and inventory lists, personnel files, combat reports, pay records, receipts and medical reports.
The easy and the wrong solution to his command’s problems Fergus thought, would be to send a message to Quietus requesting additional money and resources, but such a message would not go down well at Taskforce Red HQ. No, this was something he was going to have to solve using his own initiative. If he could impress Quietus with what he’d done with the Seventh Cavalry, then maybe he would stand a chance at getting close enough to the general to complete the mission Hadrian had given him. Maybe then Hadrian would consider taking Marcus off his death list. It was a tenuous plan but it was the only one he could think of.
“What are you going to do about Hiempsal?” Crispus asked warily, closing one eye. “The man is filled with resentment. He still mourns for his executed brother. He won’t be forgetting his brother or forgiving the army for what it did. That man is going to cause trouble Sir.”
“His brother mutinied,” Fergus replied sharply. “The punishment for mutiny is death.”
“Quiet right Sir,” Crispus said, raising his hand to rub his eye. “But as you have heard, the men had good cause to kill their commander.”
Across from Crispus, Fergus sighed and lowered his gaze. For a moment, the room remained silent.
“If you allow his resentment to grow you will only store up trouble Sir,” Crispus said quietly. “Resentment leads to hatred and if it is not dealt with Hiempsal’s attitude will continue to affect the performance of the whole ala. He will remind them of past injustices. I would advise that you take action quickly Sir.”
Fergus nodded and looked up at Crispus with a grave expression.
“I agree,” he muttered, “and action will be taken.”
Then, taking a deep breath, Fergus forced himself to change the subject.
“I am short of five decurions and a standard bearer,” Fergus muttered in a tired voice. “We are going to need to promote some of the men from the ranks to fill the gaps. Any ideas Crispus?”
“Not really,” Crispus replied, as he tried to keep his eyes open, “Only that the men are fiercely competitive and proud Sir. If you make the wrong choice it will cause tension in the ranks and they will blame you.”
Wearily Fergus raised his hand and rubbed his fingers across his face.
“Well for a start I am going to promote you to standard bearer,” Fergus said with an affirmative nod, “You will do your duty alongside your translator role. The men trusted you enough to elect you as their commander so I am sure that they will trust you with the safe keeping of their standard and their money.”
Crispus opened his eyes wide, raised his head and turned to stare at Fergus in surprise.
“Thank you, Sir,” Crispus croaked.
“Regarding the five new officers,” Fergus sighed and lowered his eyes towards the paperwork that covered the table, “you are right. I can’t just pick five men from the ranks. From these incomplete, neglected personnel reports that I have read there are no obvious candidates. My predecessor is a shit for allowing the cohorts paperwork to fall behind like this. A fucking turd. So, what about having each troop elect their own officers? That way no one can complain.”
Across from him Crispus stirred and yawned.
“Having the men elect their own leaders sounds good in theory Sir,” Crispus said with a pained expression, “but this is not an Athenian democracy. I know these Numidians. Their vote will break down along tribal, family and blood lines. There are nasty blood-feuds between some of these men that we know nothing about. You must be careful Sir. If we mishandle these promotions it could cause a riot. Electing the officers will not resolve the tension that the promotion may cause.” Crispus yawned again and then gazed sleepily at Fergus. “You must understand Sir, that these Numidians are a proud, independent minded and free folk. It is hard for them to accept being told what to do by one of their own. They are happier being led by a Roman officer than one of their own. Leaving them to themselves is a sure way of getting them to quarrel amongst each other. I have seen enough of that to make me sick. Only the strongest and most respected amongst them, like a Hannibal or a Scipio, can command any sort of respect and when a commander can do that,” passion suddenly crept into Crispus’ voice, “when he manages to unite and inspire these Numidians Sir. Then they are unstoppable and the finest horsemen in the world. I have seen that too. But without a strong and respected leader Sir, they will quickly fall apart and become a disorganised rabble. That is why Rome places Roman officers in command of these auxiliary units.” Crispus paused and gazed at Fergus with a weary look. “If you want the Seventh Cavalry to be the best in the army then your challenge Sir, is to inspire the men. Do that and they will be the best.”
Fergus raised his eyebrows. “Well aren’t you a grand source of information,” he growled in a good-natured voice. Then for a long moment Fergus remained silent as he seemed lost in thought. “All right,” he said at last, “here is what we will do. You say that these Numidians are the finest horsemen in the world. Well I want to see that with my own eyes. So, we are going to organise a horsemanship competition for the five squadrons whose officers were executed and the winners of these contests will become my new decurion’s. And I want the whole damn cohort to be their witnesses. Promotion shall be based on merit, skill and strength and nothing else.”
“I suppose that could work,” Crispus said, opening his eyes wide as he struggled to stay awake.
“And I have been thinking about the money my predecessor stole from the men,” Fergus said, tapping his finger sharply on the table. “Have the word discreetly spread amongst our Bedouin neighbours that I am willing to pay them if any one of them has any information as to the movements of my predecessor when he was outside the fort and around the oasis. But under no circumstances ar
e you to tell them what this is about. If those nomads get the idea that a fortune is buried somewhere in the ground, they are going to look for it themselves. I think you are right. That money must still be around here somewhere and the sooner we retrieve it the better. Make that a priority Crispus.”
“Yes Sir,” Crispus replied in a dull and dutiful voice as he scratched a note onto a piece of papyrus with his iron-tipped stylus.
“And one more thing before you get some sleep,” Fergus said with a sudden crafty look. “I need you to make me a small statue of the Numidian god who protects travellers. Fashion the statue out of stone and make it look good. I am going to need it as soon as possible. Got that?”
“Yes Sir,” Crispus muttered, looking confused, “But Sir, there is no Numidian god who protects travellers.”
“There is now,” Fergus growled with sudden determination.
Chapter Sixteen - The Watch on the Road from Sura to Palmyra
Fergus stood beside the desert road surrounded by his decurions and gazed at his Numidian riders, as one by one they came tearing past, on their small horses in a cloud of dust, showing off their horsemanship and a range of fighting skills. The men seemed to be enjoying themselves Fergus thought, for there was nothing as exciting as the chance to show off in front of one’s commander and peers. It was morning and five days had passed since he had arrived at the desert outpost of Resafa II. The competition to find a replacement for the last of his missing cavalry officers was nearly at an end and, despite an initial scepticism, the exercise seemed to have been a great success. Close by, a few of his officers were talking to each other in their alien Berber language and Fergus guessed they were discussing the merits of this squadron’s leading contenders. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he had still managed to teach himself a few simple words of the Berber language and how to give short battle commands - attack, retreat and envelop.
As another Numidian rider came charging past and flung his javelin at the target board that had been set up forty paces away in the desert, Fergus frowned. The Numidians were truly a light-cavalry force. Their small horses were barely larger than ponies and they rode them without saddle and reins, using just a simple rope slung over the horse’s head. The north-African auxiliary cavalrymen had no armour either, wearing just their simple army tunics and their only weapons were small, round, hide-bound shields, three or four javelins and a short sword that hung from their belts. This was not a unit that could be used to break an enemy infantry line. Nor would they be able to stand up to the heavily armoured Parthian cataphract cavalry, but as a reconnaissance, harassing and fast, highly mobile light strike force, they were perfect. Crispus had told Fergus that the Numidians, properly supplied, could cover a hundred and fifty miles across open country in a single day and still be ready to fight. And that was just as well Fergus thought, as he studied the next Numidian horseman who came dashing past, for the enemy was equally mobile and dangerous. Out here on the desert frontier he had learned that it was not the Parthians who were the main threat, but the nomadic Arab raiders from the deserts to the east and south. They could move swiftly across the wasteland on their horses and camels, drawn to the lucrative trade caravans like flies to rotting meat. Fergus sighed. Protecting the slow-moving, vulnerable and highly-valuable trade caravans, moving along the desert road between Sura on the Euphrates and Palmyra, was his key responsibility.
As the final Numidian rider from this squadron came charging past, Fergus suddenly noticed a group of Bedouin men crossing the road towards him. The Bedouin, camped out in their tents around the Oasis, had proved no trouble, busying themselves with tending to their flocks of goats and animal herds and supplying the fort with fresh milk. As the Bedouins, clad in their long flowing white robes, their heads covered by their colourful Keffiyeh scarves approached, Fergus frowned. The men seemed to want to speak to him.
When they were a few yards away the group halted and Fergus noticed a small boy of no more than ten, gazing up at him with dark awe-struck eyes. One of the Bedouin, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, pointed at Fergus and began jabbering away in his native language.
“He says Sir,” Crispus said haltingly as he peered intently at the Bedouin, “that this boy here has information on your predecessor. He says that his son saw the prefect slipping out of the fort, alone, on a couple of occasions.” Crispus paused as he tried to understand what the Bedouin was saying. “It was at night. He was guarding the goats and he saw the prefect walking towards the well. He didn’t think much of it but the next night he saw the prefect doing the same thing. He says Sir,” Crispus paused and then frowned, “he says that he saw the prefect digging in the ground close to the well. It was at night but he was sure it was the prefect. This boy says that you are wearing the same helmet Sir.”
“Is that so,” Fergus muttered as, he turned to stare at the boy. “Well now, that is interesting, that is very interesting. Does the boy know why the prefect was digging beside the well?”
Crispus translated and Fergus noticed that it took his new standard bearer a lot longer than when he was speaking in the Numidian language, in which he was fluent.
In response, the boy’s face suddenly lit up and he twisted round and pointed at the well, jabbering away in his utterly alien sounding language.
“The boy does not know,” Crispus said hesitatingly, “but he says the prefect was carrying something. It looked like a sack but it was dark and he did not get a very good look. The sack looked heavy but he does not know what was inside.”
For a long moment Fergus said nothing, as he eyed the boy. Then he shifted his gaze to the Bedouin men.
“I want the boy to show me the exact spot where he saw the prefect digging in the ground,” Fergus said. “Right now.”
* * *
Fergus stood in the middle of the fort’s parade ground, gazing in silence at the large pile of gleaming coins that lay heaped up on top of the three, dusty and broken sacks. Crowding around him, his officers and men were peering eagerly at the fortune, all except for Hiempsal whose hard and bitter expression betrayed an unhappy mind. The Bedouin boy had done exactly as he had asked and, after several false starts, they had discovered the cohort’s pay chest, hidden and buried in the ground. Crispus was on his knees beside the fortune, carefully and loudly counting out the coins and with deliberate and exaggerated care placing them into a new bag. It seemed that his men were going to get paid Fergus thought, and the excitement around the camp was palpable. But Fergus was not smiling for he could already see that although they might have recovered part of the unit’s pay chest, a large chunk of the money still seemed to be missing. As if reading his mind, Crispus paused and turned to look up at him.
“We’re going to be short, Sir,” Crispus muttered. “There is a shed-load of coins missing. I think about a quarter of what we owe the men Sir. Looks like the prefect must have spent some of the money after all - the arsehole.”
“Keep counting,” Fergus replied stoically as he glanced in Hiempsal’s direction. “Once you are done I want the whole cohort out on parade and in their correct squadron formations. We will pay them what we have then and I will explain the deficit.”
“And what about the rest of their pay Sir?” Crispus asked as he turned to look at the coins. “How are we going to make up for the quarter that has been lost? The men are going to want their full salary, as do I.”
“I have a plan for that,” Fergus replied coolly. “Every man shall receive his full salary but I am going to need everyone’s help in achieving that.”
“I don’t understand Sir,” Crispus frowned shaking his head.
“You will,” Fergus replied.
* * *
Across the parade ground, in the centre of the mud-brick fort, the whole ala stood stiffly to attention, grouped together into their sixteen cavalry squadrons, their officers standing out in front of the men.
The morale, discipline and appearance of his Numidian’s seemed to have dra
matically improved over the past few days, Fergus thought with satisfaction. And that was just as well, for pay-day in the army was a solemn, respectful, serious and splendid occasion. It was on this day that the financial contract between a commander and his men was honoured and that required a dignified ceremony Fergus thought. In his time with the Twentieth Legion pay day had come three times a year and had been treated with the same solemnity and respect as a religious holiday. Fergus stood on top of a barrel, gazing down silently and sternly at his men, determined to impose that same solemnity and seriousness that he had witnessed in the legions. Close by, Crispus stood staring into space, clutching bags of coins in both hands as he waited for the order to pay the men. It was getting late and in the clear blue sky not a cloud could be seen.
“Men,” Fergus cried out, “We have had a good day today. We have recovered your money. The pay, which was stolen from you.” Fergus paused as he allowed Crispus to translate. “But as you saw, we have not been able to recover all of the money. About a quarter of your pay is still missing. I don’t think we are going to find it but I want you all to know that every man will be paid what he is owed. I promise you. But to achieve this,” Fergus paused again, as his eyes swept across the silent parade ground, “I am going to need your help. I have a plan, which we will be putting into action tomorrow. Don’t worry, I think you are going to like it.”
Allowing Crispus to translate, Fergus paused and his eyes suddenly sought out Hiempsal, standing to attention in front of his men.
“Men,” Fergus cried out again, “I understand why you killed your commander. In doing so you disgraced yourselves and now face a long and hard road to regain your honour, but I understand why you did it. There is no excuse for mutiny and the army was right to punish you. However, in the circumstances I believe it is also right that your dead comrades deserve to be honoured. Your previous commander abused his position and for that, on behalf of the army, I apologise. So, in the next few days I shall be erecting, using my own money, a funeral altar to honour those who were executed. We shall honour their memory; we shall remember the injustice that was their fate, and all of us will pay our respects to their spirits.”
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