Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  Staggering to his feet with wild crazy eyes, Fergus stared down at the dead Arab chief and, as he did, the pain from his multiple wounds suddenly returned with a vengeance and he groaned, swayed and nearly collapsed. Blood was flowing down his arm, leg and his head and face were matted with it. Across the desert all was silent except for the gusts of the wind. The raiders were staring at their dead leader in stunned horror and shock and not a man moved. Then from behind him, Fergus heard horses’ hooves approaching and a moment later Crispus and two Numidian’s surrounded him. Their voices seemed distant and he could barely understand what they were saying. Strong hands were suddenly lifting and dragging him up onto his horse.

  “That was the stupidest thing I have ever seen Sir,” Crispus roared, as he rode alongside Fergus, supporting him with his arm, “and the bravest. You are a damn fool Sir, you could have gotten killed. A damn bloody hero.”

  “I stopped them,” Fergus groaned weakly, as he swayed on his horse and the searing pain threatened to overwhelm him. “I halted them. That was the plan. They must not be allowed to reach the oasis, Crispus.”

  “No Sir,” Crispus snapped as he tightened his grip on Fergus to prevent him from falling from his horse, “You delayed them. That over there, Sir, is what is going to stop them.”

  And as Fergus weakly turned his head to look in the direction in which Crispus was pointing he groaned, as out in the desert he caught sight of a huge wall of sand and dust, a mile high, racing towards them.

  “Sandstorm,” he croaked. “A fucking sandstorm.”

  Chapter Nineteen – The E ye of the Sheep

  Inside the fort the three Numidian troopers stood rigidly to attention outside the entrance to their barracks, their arms pressed tightly against their bodies, their eyes gazing into space. Fergus, leaning gently on a spear and accompanied by the squadron’s decurion, looked on as Crispus ducked into the two-room barrack block and began his inspection. It was just after dawn and some weeks had passed since his duel with the desert raiders. Under Eutropius’s careful guidance and care, the wounds to Fergus’s arm and leg had nearly healed, although the pain had not entirely vanished and he was not yet completely fit. Inside the small, simple two-room barracks the three Numidian horses, who occupied the front room, whinnied and stirred as Crispus examined them, before poking around in the straw and entering the back room where the three men lived and slept. Fergus remained silent as he waited for Crispus to finish his inspection. His fort, like any other cavalry fort, had no purpose-built stables for the horses. Instead his riders slept, together with their horses, in two small rooms. The closeness between the men and their mounts reinforced the bond between them and meant that, in an emergency, they would be able to muster quickly.

  “All in order Sir,” Crispus reported as he re-emerged and nodded at Fergus. Acknowledging him, Fergus moved on, walking stiffly with the aid of his spear towards the neighbouring brace of barrack rooms where another three troopers were standing to attention. And once again Crispus vanished inside. Patiently, Fergus waited for his standard bearer to re-appear. It was a boring but necessary routine, inspecting the horses and the men’s living-quarters, for it added to the overall discipline and spirit of the cohort and Fergus had refused to allow a single day to go by without an inspection. The Seventh Cavalry were going to be the most disciplined fighting unit in the army. As he waited for Crispus to re-appear, he turned to study the men’s faces as they stood lined up outside their barrack rooms, awaiting the inspection. Since he had killed the Arab tribal-king he had noticed his men gazing at him with a silent, newfound respect. The sand storm that had struck after he had killed the Arab king had lasted for nearly two days. It had filled the air with choking dust, sand and debris, reducing visibility to a few yards. He and his men had made it back to their mud-brick fort just in time to avoid the worst of it and, when it had finally subsided, there had been no sign of the Arab raiders. They had vanished back into the desert. In the days that followed Fergus had learned from the Bedouin, who shared the oasis with him, that by killing the tribal king he had unleashed a power struggle within the enemy tribe. The Bedouin had told him that two contestants apparently were vying to be the next king and it had caused chaos. But then yesterday, for the first time in weeks, one of his patrols had once again spotted an Arab raiding party observing the road from the desert.

  “All in order Sir,” Crispus said, as he came out of the rooms and started towards the next barracks.

  “Crispus,” Fergus said quietly, “when you are done have all the decurions come to my quarters at once for an “O.” The raiders have returned. We need to plan our next move.”

  “Sir,” Crispus replied with a smart salute.

  * * *

  Fergus ran his fingers lightly across the ugly scar on his arm as he twisted his neck to examine the wound. Eutropius was right. His wounds were healing but he couldn’t afford to rest, like the doctor had advised him to do. There was too much work that still needed to be done. One by one his decurions trooped into the gloomy, darkish quarters and formed a silent semi-circle. Crispus nodded at him, as he was the last man to enter the room.

  “The enemy have returned,” Fergus said sharply, as forgetting his scars, he raised his head to look at his officers. “Yesterday they were spotted observing the road again. This is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue. We are going to have to decisively deal with this threat once and for all.”

  Fergus paused as he allowed Crispus to translate.

  “I have been thinking,” Fergus said, turning to look down at his desk. “We could use diplomacy to remove the threat to our road. We could pay these Arab raiders to go away, but the problem with that is that I don’t have the money and besides, if we pay them to go away then sooner or later they will be back for more.” Fergus paused. “Neither do we have the manpower, particularly in infantry, to stand up to them in a pitched-battle,” he exclaimed. “So, what do we do?”

  Around him not a man said a word, as they waited for him to speak.

  “I have learned that the desert is an inhospitable place,” Fergus said at last, as a gleam appeared in his eye. “So how do these Arabs survive out there? How can they find enough water and food for all those camels and horses? They have to have a base somewhere; an oasis in the desert that supports them.”

  “So,” Fergus replied, allowing Crispus to catch up. “A few days ago, I went out and inquired about this with our neighbours, the Bedouin, with whom we share this beautiful, desert outpost. And they told me that the raiders are camped about thirty miles away, at another desert oasis. They told me that our enemy have numerous flocks of sheep and goats. They have plentiful water. In other words, lads, they possess a perfect base from which to threaten our road. It is a disgrace that my predecessor did nothing to neutralise this threat. For if we can drive the raiders from that oasis and deny them the supplies of the water it gives them, then they will lose their ability to mount a sustained threat against our road.”

  Fergus paused to gaze at his officer’s faces.

  “The key to destroying the enemy threat is control of that desert oasis,” he explained. “And I intend to take control. I intend to force the raiders to leave.”

  “How?” Crispus asked translating Hiempsal’s question. “How Sir will you force them to leave the oasis,” he added, clearing his throat. “They outnumber us. You said yourself that we are not strong enough to drive them from the field in a pitched battle.”

  Fergus turned to gaze at Hiempsal. The Numidian officer was staring back at him with a curious, incredulous expression.

  “We are going to poison their water supply,” Fergus replied.

  Around the room no one spoke.

  “But to do that I am going to need the help of the Bedouin,” Fergus said. “Crispus,” he added, turning to his standard bearer, “I want you to invite their headman to a feast that I shall give in his honour here tonight, in my quarters. We will discuss the details of the plan then. See to it th
at we present the finest food that we have. And tell Hiempsal that I want him to be present too.”

  * * *

  It was getting late and in the darkness the fire crackled, hissing and spitting sparks that shot upwards only to die in the cool evening air. A whole sheep was roasting over the fire, impaled on a long, iron-spit. The animal fat dripped slowly into the flames. Fergus, Crispus and Hiempsal were sitting cross-legged on the sand along one side of the open fire. They were silent as they stared at the roasting sheep, whilst opposite them the Bedouin headman, his brother and his eldest son also said nothing. Beyond the fire, the oasis and the open desert were plunged into darkness except for the faint glow of the Bedouin lamps, hanging in their tents. Close by, a goat was bleating and a cool breeze was stirring the palm trees. Idly the Bedouin headman reached out and slowly stirred the embers of the fire with a stick. He had barely said more than a few words since they’d arrived, other than to welcome them. Fergus raised his head and glanced at the Bedouin chief. The man and his companions were clothed in long, flowing white robes and the headman was sporting a short, black trimmed beard. A beautifully decorated knife was stuffed into his belt and rings adorned his fingers. Things had not turned out as Fergus had expected, for instead of accepting his invitation to dine with him in the fort, the Bedouin had replied that they would entertain Fergus outside in their camp. And now that he was here, Fergus was not sure of his host’s customs and it made him hesitant.

  Quietly Fergus raised the mug of frothy, camel milk to his mouth and took a sip of the warm and sweet liquid. It would have been nicer to have wine he thought, but Crispus had warned him that if he wanted a deal with the Bedouin, he would have to respect their ways. Across the fire, the Bedouin headman was staring into the flames. The man looked about fifty although Crispus had said his actual age was forty. The desert was a hard place in which to survive and the hardness of their life was reflected in the faces of the people who lived there. Then, as Fergus looked on, the headman leaned forwards towards the fire and using a sharp pointed knife, he expertly dug out and cut away one of the sheep’s eyeballs and dropped it into a small earthenware cup. Speaking a few words in his native language, he looked up at Fergus, grinned and stretched out his hand, offering Fergus the little cup.

  “He says, that as his honoured guest,” Crispus said lightly, “that you shall have the honour of eating the sheep’s eye.”

  Fergus took the cup from the man’s outstretched hand and looked down at the sheep’s eyeball that was rolling around inside. It was larger than he had expected.

  “If you refuse to eat the eyeball,” Crispus said softly, “he will take it as a great insult and our mission will be in jeopardy Sir. Eat the eyeball, Sir.”

  Fergus was still gazing at the sheep’s eye. The whole thing looked alien and disgusting.

  “The next time Crispus,” Fergus muttered raising his eyebrows, “you shall be the honoured guest.” Then, giving the Arab headman a little nod of gratitude, Fergus picked up the eyeball, slipped it into his mouth and, as quickly as possible, swallowed it without biting.

  Across the fire from him, the three Bedouin men were watching him closely and, as Fergus finished digesting the eyeball and smiled at them, all three broke into wide grins, displaying many rotting teeth.

  “It’s very good,” Fergus replied, as he maintained his smile. “Tell him Crispus that he honours me and that I am glad my men and his people get on well. Long may it last.”

  As Crispus finished his hesitant translation, the Bedouin nodded in reply and raised their cups of frothy, camel milk. Then the headman said something in a quick voice, too quick for Crispus to understand, forcing him to ask the man to repeat himself.

  “He says Sir,” Crispus said at last, “that you are a great man with much honour. You killed the king of his enemies in a single combat. That was brave. He says news of your exploits has spread far and wide across the desert. He says you honour him with your presence here tonight.”

  Fergus nodded, as he took another sip of camel milk.

  “Tell him Crispus, that his enemies are my enemies. Tell him that I need his help in removing the threat from the desert.”

  Dutifully Crispus translated in a slow hesitant voice, as he sought the words. In response, the Arab headman nodded solemnly and lowered his eyes to the fire, stirring the embers with his stick.

  For a while no one spoke, as the fire crackled and hissed in the darkness. Despite the heat from the fire, Fergus could sense the temperature was dropping fast. The nights out here in the desert he had discovered, were bitterly cold. Glancing up at the night sky, he saw that the heavens were covered in a fantastic array of stars. A most beautiful sight.

  “Crispus,” Fergus said at last, as he slowly turned to his standard bearer, “tell him that I intend to travel into the desert to the enemy camp and poison our enemies water supply. That is the only way in which we shall persuade them to leave. It will be a small mission. Just myself and Hiempsal, will do the job but we need one of his Bedouin to guide us to the enemy camp and get us inside, without raising suspicion. Is he willing to help us?”

  “He says Sir,” Crispus replied at last, as he studied the Bedouin with a frown - “he says that he will help you. He says that he has a cousin who has traded with these people. They know his face. They should trust him. He can get you and your man into the enemy camp. He says his cousin is as trustworthy as the sun that appears every morning to the east.”

  “Good,” Fergus said quickly and gratefully. “We will disguise ourselves as Bedouin. When can his cousin be ready to go?”

  Crispus translated and was rewarded by a rapid answer.

  “He will send a message to him tomorrow and, if all goes well, his cousin can be here in a few days Sir,” Crispus replied.

  Fergus looked across the fire at the Bedouin headman and nodded.

  “In gratitude to his generosity and help, I will give him three camels,” Fergus said, lowering his gaze.

  As Crispus translated, the Bedouin headman suddenly laughed and shook his head.

  “He says Sir that he has enough camels,” Crispus muttered, as the Bedouin stopped talking. “He is a wealthy man. He says he has many children and many wives, but that he does not have knowledge. He does not want your camels Sir.”

  “Then what?” Fergus replied.

  From across the fire the Bedouin was sharpening his knife, readying himself to cut the meat from the sheep and before Crispus could translate, he jabbered away in his native language.

  Crispus frowned and paused. “One of his sons Sir; you met him already, the boy who showed us where the prefect had buried the men’s pay chest.” Crispus paused again, as he struggled to find the right words. “He says that the Greek doctor who visits from time to time fascinates him. He says that this man has great knowledge. So, he wants his son to be an apprentice to the doctor. If his son can learn what that doctor knows, he will be able to look after his family’s many physical ailments.”

  “Eutropius,” Fergus exclaimed. “He wants the boy to become Eutropius’s apprentice?”

  “Yes, I think that is what he means Sir,” Crispus muttered.

  “It’s a fine idea,” Fergus said looking away. “But tell him that I have no authority over the doctor. I cannot tell him what to do. I cannot force him to accept the boy as his apprentice.”

  No sooner had Crispus translated Fergus’s words however, when the Bedouin chief replied with a little chuckle.

  “He says that you are a great man,” Crispus said wearily. “He says that he has confidence that a man like you can make it happen.”

  Fergus raised his eyebrows and sighed as he turned to gaze at the Bedouin chief, and for a long moment he said nothing.

  “All right, I shall speak with Eutropius,” Fergus replied at last. “Tell him that his son will join the doctor when he comes around on his next visit.”

  “How are you going to force Eutropius to accept that?” Crispus hissed turning to stare at Fergus.r />
  “I am going to have to pay the bastard,” Fergus snapped.

  Chapter Twenty – Subterfuge

  The three camels were chewing, their jaws and mouths moving in a strange gulping sideways movement; their large brown eyes staring passively ahead. Fergus frowned as he gazed at the big animals. He had never ridden a camel before and he was concerned that his lack of skill would show. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He would just have to learn fast and hope that when they reached the enemy camp the darkness would hide his clumsiness and not give him away. It was morning and he stood on the edge of the oasis, making his final preparations for the journey into the desert. As he reached down to check that his pugio and his gladius, Corbulo’s old sword, were securely fastened and hidden underneath the long, flowing, white Bedouin robes he was wearing he noticed Crispus coming towards him.

  “A fine disguise Sir,” Crispus said with a tense smile. Then his smile vanished abruptly. “I have briefed your guide and Hiempsal,” Crispus continued. “The guide will take you across the desert to the oasis occupied by the raiders and time your entry into their camp after dark. If you are challenged, which he thinks is most likely, he will tell them that his camels need to use the wells. He says he has the right to use the wells. Let your guide do all the talking. He has been to their camp before and they know his face. If anyone should ask about you or Hiempsal, then you are to pretend that you are the guide’s slaves; prisoners of war. That should explain your non-local appearance, if they take a closer look. I have already informed the guide and Hiempsal. So, you must act the part Sir. Once inside the camp, the guide will lead you to the wells. He says that there are three of them. Dump the rotting carcasses into the wells and get the hell out of there.”