Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  Fergus nodded and glanced in the direction of his two companions. “Seems straight forward,” he replied. He turned to inspect his camel. “How the hell does one get up on the beast,” he added, with a hint of irritation.

  “I believe they kneel down on the ground Sir. And you mount them when they do,” Crispus replied.

  Fergus nodded and then turned to examine his standard bearer.

  “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of this again are you,” Fergus snapped. “I told you. This is something that I must do myself. If we fuck this up, the enemy will never give us another chance to get it right.”

  Crispus sighed and looked away. “Maybe,” he said lowering his voice, as he glanced in the direction of Hiempsal and the Bedouin guide - the local headman’s cousin. “But you are taking a risk, Sir. It is not too late to give this mission to someone else. There is no reason why you should risk your life. You are needed here in the fort. If these raiders capture you, they will make you suffer Sir.”

  “I know the risks,” Fergus snapped, “but leaders must lead from the front and we need to do this right. We are going to have just one chance,” he added, slapping Crispus on the shoulder. “And I need the men to see that I am willing to endure the same risks as they have to.”

  “I think they already know that,” Crispus muttered, looking away. Then he sighed and half gestured towards Hiempsal, who was getting himself ready.

  “What about Hiempsal?” Crispus asked quietly. “Why are you taking him with you Sir?”

  “Hiempsal is coming with me because I have in mind to make him my deputy commander, but I want to see how he copes,” Fergus replied, as he fastened two sacks across his camel’s back.

  “Deputy commander?” Crispus exclaimed in surprise.

  “That’s right,” Fergus nodded as he loaded a water satchel onto the camel’s side, “I have been thinking about it for a while. I need a deputy. There is too much work for just you and me to handle. Promoting Hiempsal should lay to rest any residual bitterness and resentment amongst the men regarding the mutiny. He is eager to lead and he did well when I gave him temporary command of the five squadrons patrolling the northern sector of the road. No one has complained about him.”

  “You are full of surprises Sir,” Crispus said, with a little shake of his head.

  Fergus grinned as he slapped Crispus on the shoulder again. “You are in command of the fort until I get back,” he exclaimed. “You are a good man Crispus. I could not have turned this unit around without your help. And that is the last compliment that you are going to get from me.”

  * * *

  The gravelly desert stretched away in every direction, empty, flat and arid. The three camels, tied together and following each other in single file, with their riders sitting atop the beast’s humps, slowly moved across the golden wasteland in their distinctive paced gait. It was getting late and the sun was already low on the western horizon. In the still blue skies, nothing moved nor was there the slightest whisper of a breeze. Fergus wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, as he gazed across the endless plains. He’d been struck by the complete silence in the desert but now the movement of the camel was making him feel seasick. His Keffiyeh was wrapped around his face, covering his mouth and nose and his legs were dangling and resting against the sacks, strapped to the camel’s side. These contained salt, perfumes from Egypt and other cheap trinkets - trade goods from Antioch and Palmyra. The trade goods however were just a cover for the dead, rotting body-parts of rats and other animals, that were carefully hidden away amongst the trade goods. Once in the well, the body-parts would poison the water supply and hopefully persuade the raiders to give up and leave. That at least was the plan.

  Up ahead the Arab guide was leading the way deeper and deeper into the wastelands. The headman’s cousin, clad in his keffiyeh scarf and his long flowing white robes, seemed to be armed with nothing more than a small, curved knife and a whip that hung from the side of his camel. He’d said nothing all day except to talk to his camel in his strange, harsh-sounding language. Hiempsal too, seemed to have withdrawn into a world of his own and during the worst of the day’s heat, Fergus had caught him closing his eyes as if he was trying to sleep. And all day they had seen no one - the only sign of life being a snake that had slithered away upon their approach.

  It was early evening when the Bedouin guide suddenly halted at the edge of a small dry wadi and ordered his camel to sit down on the ground. Dismounting, he turned to Fergus’s camel and forced it down into the dirt with a few harsh words. Then hastily the Arab gestured for Fergus and Hiempsal to dismount and, as they did so, stiffly and awkwardly, the Bedouin moved away and carefully busied himself with preparing a drink from an earthen-ware pot. Sitting down on the ground, cross-legged he gestured for Fergus and Hiempsal to join him.

  The drink was cold and sweet and, as he sipped it from a tiny cup, Fergus was surprised by how refreshing it was. The three of them sat in a circle in silence, not moving and, as Fergus glanced at his Bedouin companion, the man grinned at him displaying a line of yellow teeth. There was no point in trying to start a conversation or ask questions for the Bedouin did not speak Latin. Content to remain silent, the three of them sat for a while in the dirt, lost in their own thoughts. Close by, the camels too seemed happy to gaze impassively out into the desert, their mouths chewing away with their strange, sideways motion. Then at last the guide raised his hand and pointed at the darkening sky. Slowly, Fergus nodded in reply. He guessed that the man was telling him that they must wait until darkness before completing the final stage across the desert and then into the enemy camp. At his side, Hiempsal had closed his eyes again and seemed to be asleep, even though he was sitting up.

  Across the desert time passed and the light slowly faded and, when the first stars began to show in the night sky, the Arab guide suddenly rose to his feet and gestured for Fergus and Hiempsal to do the same. It was time, Fergus thought grimly and, as he shook himself, he suddenly felt the coldness of the approaching night. Checking that his weapons were well hidden from view, he stiffly mounted his camel and held on as the beast lurched ungainly onto its feet.

  It was dark when, suddenly in the pale moonlight, Fergus caught sight of the palm trees in the desert ahead. Slowly and calmly the three camels headed towards the oasis and as they did, Fergus tensed. This had to be the enemy encampment. A few moments later the darkness was rent by a shout from an Arabic voice. In front of Fergus the guide came to a halt and replied, with a stream of words which Fergus could not understand. In the darkness, he caught sight of two oil lamps coming towards him, and a moment later three men appeared from the gloom, armed with shields, swords and spears. They looked suspicious as their eyes quickly took in the three camels and their riders and, as they held up their lamps, Fergus lowered his eyes and gazed down at the ground like he had seen slaves do.

  Ahead of him the guide was talking to the guards, speaking to them in a calm voice. Fergus kept his eyes focussed on the ground. This was the crucial moment. Would the guards believe the guide’s story? Would they allow him access to their wells? If they didn’t he would find out soon enough. There would be a fight and he would have to flee for his life. The guide and the guards still seemed to be arguing but then abruptly, one of the guards raised his arm in a dismissive gesture and calmly, without saying another word, the guide urged his camel forwards, towards the camp. Fergus felt his heart jump. The ruse seemed to be working.

  As they drew closer to the heart of the oasis, Fergus started to notice Bedouin style tents pitched in the desert and long lines of silent camels and horses, standing tied-together with ropes. And further away in the gloom Fergus could hear the bleating of goats and sheep. From amongst the tents the noise of a few voices, singing and bursts of laughter occupied the darkness and here and there, he caught sight of men camped out around small, flickering fires, consuming a meal. No one stopped them as the guide slowly and calmly led the three of them towards the
centre of the camp. Ahead, the cluster of palm trees and scrubs was growing denser and Fergus guessed they had to be close to the wells. Suddenly, to his right Fergus heard another shout and, from the darkness, a line of camels appeared led by a man on foot. The animals were tied together by a rope and were heavily laden with rectangular, wooden boxes strapped to either side of the beasts’ flanks. The man leading the camels was accompanied by another, much more richly dressed Arab, who seemed to be the man who had raised the shout. The richly dressed man was holding up an oil lamp. Hastily Fergus lowered his gaze to the ground as the guide replied in his harsh language. For a while the two of them exchanged words and, as the conversation lengthened, Fergus swallowed tensely. Something was wrong. The richly dressed Arab was not letting them go.

  Suddenly Fergus was aware that the Arab was pointing a finger straight at him and as he did, he said something and repeated it. On his camel, the guide did not at first reply. Then with a sharp resolute command he forced his camel to sit down, dismounted and came stomping towards Fergus, forcing his animal down onto the ground. Before Fergus had time to dismount however, the guide was suddenly screaming at him and the next instant he smacked Fergus hard over the head with his hand. The smack caused the watching Arabs to erupt in laughter and Fergus to fall over into the sand, his head ringing with pain. Confused by the rapid, unexpected assault, Fergus tried to get to his feet, but the guide bellowed at him again, forcing him down onto his knees and slapping him once more. Fergus boiled with sudden rage, but some warning instinct stopped him from resisting. Whatever was going on, it seemed that his guide had no choice in the matter. He had to pretend to be the man’s slave. That’s what Crispus had told him. That was what the Arabs would expect. He had to act like a slave and keep his wits about him.

  The guide was standing beside him his hand forcing Fergus’s head downwards, so that he was kneeling and gazing at the sand. In front of him Fergus was suddenly aware of movement, as several more men appeared, one of whom was carrying a flaming torch. More voices spoke and someone laughed. Then suddenly a hand grasped hold of his chin and roughly yanked his head up, forcing him to look upwards into the richly dressed Arab’s eyes. For a long silent moment, the Arab gazed down at Fergus, his dark eyes expressionless as he studied the slave. Then uttering a single contemptuous word, the man spat into Fergus’s face and abruptly turned away. Stoically and silently Fergus reached up with his hand to wipe away the spittle. The guide must have told the raiders that his slave was Roman for what else could have caused such interest. By now a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, coming to see what was going on and amongst them, Fergus suddenly spotted strangers. The newcomers looked very different to the desert Arabs and were clad in foreign clothes - a leather Kaftan tunic, richly embroidered and baggy trousers tucked into ankle boots, carefully tonsured hair and a pointy Scythian cap. Powerful composite bows and a quiver of arrows hung from their belts and they were staring at him with an arrogant, mocking look.

  Parthians! They had to be Parthians. Fergus’s eyes widened as he suddenly realised who the men were. These strangers were Rome’s mortal and long-standing enemy in the east. But what were Parthians doing out here in the desert, so close to the Roman limes? The nearest Parthian settlements along the Euphrates were far away. What business had brought them out here? The men were standing close to and holding onto the camels containing the rectangular boxes. Did the camels and merchandise belong to them? It looked that way. But there was no time to dwell on the matter. The richly dressed Arab was crying out again, addressing himself to the guide, as he pointed a finger straight at Fergus, who was still on his knees in the sand. The guide seemed to be protesting but his protests appeared to be in vain. Reluctantly the guide moved towards his camel and, as he unhitched his whip, Fergus groaned. He was about to be whipped. Were the Arabs trying to get the headman’s cousin to prove that he Fergus was a slave or did they just enjoy beating up a Roman? Bracing himself, Fergus tensed as the guide unrolled the whip, flexed it and then swiftly lashed him across his back. The thwack of the whip striking his back made Fergus jerk forwards and groan and cruel, mocking laughter erupted from amongst the spectators. Once more, the whip cracked across his back and then again and again. On the fifth strike, Fergus groaned loudly and grimaced and was rewarded by a peel of laughter.

  The headman’s cousin was speaking to the Arabs and rolling up his whip. The man seemed to have had enough whatever they said and his resoluteness seemed to have an effect. With a few final, rapidly spoken words to the guide, the small gathering started to break up. The richly clothed Arab turned to Fergus, contemptuously spat into the dirt in front of him and then marched away, leading the party of camels and the Parthians off into the darkness. When the men had finally disappeared, the guide hastily gestured for Fergus to get back onto his feet. And as he did so, stiffly and with a painful grimace, Fergus caught sight of Hiempsal in the faint moon light, gazing down at him in awe from atop his camel.

  The guide did not bother to remount his camel and instead, started out on foot leading the beast towards a grove of palm trees. Stiffly and painfully Fergus did the same, groaning lightly and guiding his camel by the rope that bound the three beasts together. No one spoke and around them Fergus could hear the murmur of voices and in the distance the bark of a dog. As he spotted the well, Fergus grunted in relief and casting a quick look around, he saw that they were alone. Pausing beside the well the Bedouin guide calmly lowered a bucket down the hole and allowed each camel to slurp up the water before he turned and nodded at Fergus. Hastily Fergus and Hiempsal rummaged around in the sacks of trade goods and then, glancing around furtively, they hurried across to the well and dumped the dead and diseased animal carcasses into the hole in the ground. The rotting-flesh struck the water below with a soft splash and as he heard the noise, the guide abruptly turned away and without uttering a word, he led the animals towards the second well.

  As they approached the third and final well, Fergus sucked in his breath. “Shit,” he muttered to himself as he noticed the solitary figure of a man standing beside the water hole. The well had been dug beneath the branches of a palm tree and close by, was a Bedouin tent. Too close by. From the pitched tent, the noise of voices could be clearly heard. The guide muttered a few words and the man beside the well replied in a quiet, distracted voice. As he drew closer Fergus saw that the man was gazing up at the stars studying them, his lips moving silently, his face a mask of fascination. The head man’s cousin, ignoring the unwelcome intrusion, led his camels up to the well and began pretending to draw water as he glanced in Fergus’s direction. Fergus bit his lip. The Arab was too close. There was no way he wouldn’t see or hear them dump the rotting animal carcasses into the watering hole. Tensely Fergus glanced at Hiempsal, who seemed to have understood the problem. For a moment Fergus hesitated, unable to decide what to do. But as he dithered, Hiempsal calmly came up behind the Arab star-gazer and then with a swift movement he lunged, clapped his hand around the man’s mouth and, with his other hand sliced open his throat with his knife. Straining to stop the spluttering, dying man from making any noise, Hiempsal calmly lowered the man to the ground and paused to wipe his knife on the man’s clothing. Then he gestured for Fergus to help him. Hastily Fergus caught hold of the man’s legs and between the two of them, they dragged the corpse into the cover of some bushes. Then without a word, Fergus and Hiempsal rushed back and began unpacking the animal body-parts.

  From the nearby tent, the murmur of voices continued. No one it seemed, had noticed anything but they were bound to find the corpse soon enough. Swiftly Fergus dumped the bags containing the diseased body-parts into the well and was rewarded by a soft series of splashes. Beside the camels, the guide was frantically beckoning for Fergus to get back onto his camel. Fergus and Hiempsal had just managed it when, from the entrance to the Bedouin tent the figure of a man appeared, gazing at them in silence.

  “Ride,” Fergus hissed, as he urged his camel forwards and, as the b
east swiftly carried him away into the darkness, Fergus twisted around to stare at the Bedouin tent. The three of them had just cleared the camp’s perimeter and were heading out into the desert under a fantastic array of stars, when from the oasis loud cries of distress and alarm rent the night.

  In response, the guide cried out something to his camel and moments later the beasts broke into a gallop, moving across the desert like Fergus had never moved before. As he twisted around to peer backwards towards the oasis, Fergus caught sight of Hiempsal raising his fist in a victorious gesture.

  * * *

  It was late the following afternoon when the three camels came out of the desert and slowly walked up to the gates of the mud-brick Roman fort. As the alarm bell rang out, Fergus gazed up at the walls of his fort, his face covered in dust and his lips dry and cracked. They had ridden all night, not daring to pause in case the Arabs were in pursuit. How the Bedouin guide had managed to navigate his way across the desert at night was a mystery, but he had managed it and they were finally home. As the camels walked up to the fort, the gates swung open and Crispus and a few Numidians came hurrying towards them.

  “Good to see you Sir,” Crispus cried out, with touching relief written all over his face. “Did you manage to poison the wells?”

  “We did,” Fergus replied with a satisfied nod as his camel came to a halt and started to lower itself to the ground. “Those desert raiders are going to be mightily displeased when they start to fall sick.”