“This is good news,” Crispus said hastily. “Good news Fergus and welcome back.” Crispus paused as Fergus stiffly and painfully dismounted from his camel. There seemed however to be something else on the standard bearer’s mind.
“Sir, there is news from Antioch,” Crispus blurted out at last. “A despatch rider arrived whilst you were away. We have been given new orders. General Quietus and Task Force Red are heading north and we are to join them. Seems the invasion of Armenia is about to commence. The whole cohort has been ordered to move up to Antioch, as soon as our replacement unit arrives, which will be within days. We are going to war Sir.”
Chapter Twenty-One – Armenia Capta
May 114 AD near to the Armenian settlement of Elegeia
His face streaked with sweat and his armour and plumed centurion’s helmet covered in splashes of mud, Fergus looked up at the majestic forest-covered mountains, as he rode his horse slowly along the side of the muddy, well-trampled track. Armenia was a truly beautiful country that reminded him a little of the mountains of Dacia. Lofty, craggy and impenetrable mountains towered above him, their steep, slopes thick with green pine-trees. Colourful flowers and the fresh scent of spring were everywhere. Here and there he could see patches of winter-snow remained in high, inaccessible mountain crannies. In the distance clinging to a mountain slope, the stone houses of an Armenian village gleamed, reflecting the strong sunlight. It was near noon as Fergus led the four hundred or so mounted troopers of the Seventh Numidian Cavalry Ala in single file along the side of the track. Riding directly behind him Crispus was holding up the proud Cohort banner for all to see and, at the rear of the column, Fergus knew that Hiempsal, his newly promoted deputy, would be taking care of any stragglers. The path beside him was packed with an endless column of heavily-armed legionaries, plodding along through the mud with their large shields and spears; their equipment and marching packs slung over their shoulders. The monotonous tramp and crash of their heavy army-boots, the jingle of equipment and the braying of heavily laden pack animals filled the valley with noise. Up ahead Fergus could see the narrow and steep river-valley twisting and turning as it made its way eastwards and deeper into the mountains. The tribunes attached to Task Force Red had told him that the track would take them all the way to Artaxata, the Armenian capital, still several hundred miles to the east. Fergus gazed at the banks of the shallow, noisy and fast flowing river, as ahead of him the endless ranks of over ninety thousand Roman soldiers disappeared around the next bend.
On his horse, Fergus idly reached out to touch Galena’s iron amulet that hung on a chain around his neck. What a ride they’d had. He and his men had come over seven hundred miles across difficult terrain on this long, exhausting journey all the way from the desert frontier to the high mountains of Armenia. Leaving behind the mud brick fort at the desert oasis, he had led his men northwards towards Antioch where he’d managed to snatch a precious day and night with Galena and his girls before he was off again, northward; first towards Satala where the whole great Roman invasion force had mustered, and now into the Armenian highlands towards a settlement called Elegeia. The epic journey had taken them across barren steppes, along well-maintained Roman roads, past the great, teeming cities of Syria and then on into the inhospitable but beautiful mountains, where the highland passes had been so narrow and steep that Fergus had feared an ambush at every turn. But there had been no sign of Parthamasiris, the Armenian king or the Armenian army. The Armenians had not contested the Roman invasion and the only resistance Fergus had encountered was from the elements - torrential rain, landslides and an earthquake that had sent the horses into a panic.
As he rode along the edge of the track Fergus suddenly saw a tribune on horseback, heading down the congested path in the opposite direction. Catching sight of Fergus, the young man urged his horse towards him.
“Are you the prefect of the Seventh Numidian Auxiliary Ala,” the young aristocratic officer cried out, as he came trotting up to Fergus.
“I am,” Fergus replied.
“General Quietus wishes to see you tonight in his quarters,” the young officer said sharply. “You are to report to his tent before nightfall.”
Fergus raised his eyebrows in surprise. Since he and his men had departed the desert oasis, he had neither seen nor heard from either Hadrian or Quietus. All his orders had come down through the normal army chain of command. What was going on? What did Quietus suddenly want with him?
“Have your men fall out beside the track prefect,” the young tribune said, gesturing towards the banks of the shallow and fast flowing river. “They are still constructing the marching camps up ahead and it will be a while before they are complete. You will be notified when they are ready to receive your men.”
“A bit early to be starting on the construction of the marching camp, isn’t it?” Fergus replied with a frown, as he quickly gazed up at the sun.
“That prefect, is none of your concern,” the tribune said in a haughty voice, “count yourself lucky that it is not you who has to build them. You have your orders. See to it that they are carried out.”
And with that the young officer urged his horse onwards down the side of the muddy path. Fergus twisted on his horse and watched him go.
“An invitation to supper with the general Sir,” Crispus said, with a little smile as he came up directly behind Fergus. “Now that’s nice. I bet Quietus eats better food than we do. Bring some back for us Sir if you can.”
Fergus shook his head, ignoring the little well-intentioned jibe.
“Get the men off the track,” he said. “We will let the horses rest and have a drink from the river whilst we wait.”
“Sir,” Crispus said hastily, his expression changing rapidly.
And as Crispus bellowed out the orders and the long-line of Numidian horsemen began to peel away from the edge of the track and dismount, Fergus frowned and turned to look away. He should have been happy to receive an invitation from Quietus. This was his chance to find out where the general stood in relation to Hadrian, but some instinct warned him that it would not be so easy. Quietus was no fool and as his commanding officer, he had the power to have Fergus executed. He would have to be careful, very careful and the realisation suddenly made him nervous.
* * *
As Fergus made his way towards the principia, the HQ area at the heart of the Roman fort, he could see that the marching camp was vast. Endless rows of white tents pitched in the fields, stretched away towards the hastily erected earthen and wooden walls. Beyond the defensive ramparts he could just about make out the small Armenian town of Elegeia. The settlement had been completely dwarfed and the town’s fields and pastures overrun and destroyed by the presence of over ninety thousand Roman legionaries and auxiliaries. Inside the Roman marching camp, a constant coming and going of heavily armed soldiers, wagons, horses and mules had torn up the plain outside the town, turning it into a muddy mess. The braying of mules, whinny and stamping of horses and the shouts of men competed with the sound of sawing and hammering as the engineers and work parties assigned to camp construction, finished off their tasks. It was growing dark and in amongst the tents the legionaries, clad in their simple, army tunics, were sitting around in small groups preparing their evening meals over, small camp fires. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread, the stink of reheated garum, fermented fish sauce and the mouth-watering scent of bacon reminded Fergus that he was hungry. The marching camp was far larger than the legionary fortress at Deva Victrix where he had started his army career Fergus thought, as he plodded along through the mud, avoiding a work-party carrying newly felled logs. And rightly so, for it seemed that Hadrian, in command of all logistical arrangements in the east, had managed to gather together every available Roman soldier in half the empire for the invasion of Armenia. At the thought of Hadrian, Fergus wondered whether he was here, accompanying Trajan on his campaign. There was a good possibility that he was, but if so there would be little chance of speaking to his
patron.
The principia, sitting at the heart of the camp, was heavily guarded, surrounded by a ring of praetorian guards. Waiting patiently whilst one of the praetorians went to check and verify Quietus’s summons, Fergus gazed curiously at the cluster of large army tents where the emperor, his staff and his most senior army commanders lived. He had never been this close to the emperor of Rome before, he realised. And if he came face to face with Trajan, would he recognise him? The only images of the emperor that he’d seen had been on coins and on the ceremonial standards that were paraded about on holidays.
Quietus’s tent was a luxurious spacious affair. Fine carpets covered the floor and around the edges of the tent stood a small desk, chair, several metal chests and a tall, wooden stand, from which hung the general’s splendid armour and helmet. The metal had been polished and gleamed in the light from several oil-lamps, that hung suspended from the ceiling. At the far end of the tent a hammock, cushioned with soft animal skins, had been strung up between two sturdy wooden poles. As he stepped inside, Fergus noticed a large, rectangular table had been placed in the centre of the tent and, sitting around it were several, senior army officers. Two plainly clad slaves were busy serving a meal.
“Sir, Fergus, prefect of the Seventh Ala of Numidians reporting as requested Sir,” Fergus said, snapping out a smart salute as he caught sight of Quietus.
Catching sight of Fergus, Quietus abruptly rose to his feet.
“Prefect. Glad you are able to join us,” Quietus said in a loud voice. “Please, there is no need for formality. Sit. You must be hungry after today’s long journey.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Fergus replied as he tucked his centurion’s helmet under his arm, and stiffly and awkwardly took his place around the large, dinner table, aware that all the others were studying him. And as he did so, two slaves swiftly and silently filled his cup with wine.
At the head of the table Quietus had fixed his eyes on Fergus and for a long moment no one spoke. Then the general commanding Task Force Red reached out to a bowl of olives and chucked one into his mouth. Fergus looked down at the plates of rich, freshly prepared delicacies. The food smelled delicious. Crispus was right - the senior officers did eat better than the men and Quietus was right too; he was starving. However, he dared not touch the food until he had seen the others around the dinner table make the first move.
“I have heard good things about the Seventh Ala of Numidian Auxiliary Cavalry,” Quietus said suddenly as he gazed down the table at Fergus. “At the start of the year the ala was a disgrace, a mutinous pot of murderous malcontents. But you seem to have turned the unit into a fine fighting force. I am impressed Fergus. Here is to the seventh ala of Numidians, excellent warriors when led properly. I should know, I am one of them,” Quietus added, as he raised his cup of wine in salute.
Around the table the senior officers did the same and, as they toasted his cohort, Fergus felt his face blush with sudden pride. He had not been expecting this. Hastily he took a sip of wine and placed his cup back on the table.
At the head of the dinner table Quietus gestured that the men should start to eat and, as they fell on the food, Quietus studied Fergus with an amused and perplexed look. Then slowly the general pointed his finger at Fergus.
“I even heard,” he exclaimed, “that you fought a duel and slew an Arab chieftain in single-combat out in the desert. Hear that boys. Single combat - like some fucking gladiator in the coliseum. That takes guts.” Quietus leaned forwards across the table and gazed at Fergus with sudden admiration. “You have got guts. I like that. All my soldiers should have guts like you have.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Fergus replied, as he took a hasty bite out of a chicken leg. “May I ask Sir, how you heard about this. I did not send you any reports.”
“No, you didn’t,” Quietus said with a chuckle. “But do you think that I do not know what is going on within my own army. I know everything that goes on around here. Like the fact that you robbed those merchants on the road to Palmyra.” Quickly Quietus raised his hand to fend off any protest. “Yes, they came to me to complain about paying a donation to the Numidian god who protects travellers, but don’t worry I told them to fuck off.”
Slowly Quietus shook his head in amused disbelief.
“The Numidian god who protects travellers,” he snorted. “Now that is just too good to be true. I have never laughed so much when I heard that. Maybe I should put you in charge of army morale Fergus.”
“It was Eutropius, the doctor,” Fergus exclaimed as he looked down at the food on the table. “He sent you the reports on the state of my troops, didn’t he?”
At the head of the table the smile on Quietus’s face slowly faded. Then he nodded.
“Yes, Eutropius kept me informed,” he said in a quieter voice. “He is my eyes and ears on that stretch of the frontier. A good man, very observant. Do you think that it was coincidence that he made friends with you? No, he did so on my orders. I needed to know what kind of commander you would make.”
“I understand Sir,” Fergus said quickly.
For a while the table remained silent as the officers tucked into their meal and as they did so, Fergus suddenly realised that the moment had come when he could ask Quietus what he thought of Hadrian. It was just one simple question. Would Quietus support Hadrian if it was confirmed that Hadrian would be Trajan’s successor? And once he had the man’s answer he could inform Hadrian and he would complete his mission. But as he broke off a piece of bread, Fergus hesitated. It was not just a simple question. It was a question laden with consequences and filled with deadly pitfalls. It was a highly political and dangerous question for it would put Quietus on the spot. It would force him to reveal his hand. And, as Fergus thought about it, he began to realise how difficult it would be to ask the general for his opinion. Quietus was no fool. He would instantly realise that something was up. And why would Quietus bother to give him a truthful answer? A prefect of a lowly, insignificant auxiliary ala did not ask such questions of their commanding officer. No, Fergus suddenly resolved; if he wanted to prevent his head from being chopped off, it was better that he did not ask the question right now. He would wait until a better opportunity came along.
“Fergus,” Quietus called out as he finally broke the silence, “do you know why we have made camp here at this town called Elegeia?”
“No Sir,” Fergus replied, glancing quickly in Quietus’s direction.
Quietus calmly wiped his mouth and then took a sip of wine.
“We will be staying here for a while,” Quietus continued. “Trajan is going to be holding court. He has sent out messages right across Armenia summoning the Armenian king Parthamasiris and his nobles to come here and pledge their loyalty to the emperor. Those who come and swear allegiance to Trajan and to Rome will be allowed to keep their titles and land. Those who refuse to come will be treated as fugitives and will lose all.”
For a moment Quietus gazed at Fergus in silence, his keen, intelligent eyes gleaming with some knowledge that Fergus could only guess at. And suddenly Fergus realised that he was about to learn the real reason why Quietus had summoned him to his tent. It wasn’t to honour him with compliments, that was for sure.
“Most will come,” Quietus said, reaching up to stroke his chin, “and amongst them we have heard is the Armenian king himself. Parthamasiris has sent word that he is coming here. He is terrified of us and he has lost much support across the country. Many of his people despise him. He says he wants peace and good relations with Rome,” Quietus’s hard eyes gleamed in the dim glow of the oil lamps. “Trajan will receive him and once the negotiations are over and he sends the king away, he has asked me to provide Parthamasiris with a cavalry escort to ensure his safety. So, you Fergus,” Quietus exclaimed, “will personally provide that escort. Pick thirty good riders from your ala and have them ready to ride as soon as the negotiations are over. And now comes the important part,” Quietus said sharply, his eyes fixed on Fergus. “Once you are
clear of the camp, your orders are to kill Parthamasiris. He is to be executed whilst trying to escape. The emperor wants him dead but he wants it done discreetly and without any witnesses. He doesn’t want Parthamasiris becoming a martyr. Do you understand, Fergus?”
A blush shot across Fergus’s cheeks as he turned to look at his commanding officer. Around the table the senior officers were staring at their plates in silence.
“You want me to kill the Armenian king, Sir,” Fergus said.
“That’s right. Those are Trajan’s orders,” Quietus growled. “You seem surprised Fergus,” Quietus added in dangerous voice, “Perhaps you think the order to kill a defenceless king who has already surrendered is dishonourable?”
Fergus looked down at the table as he swallowed nervously and felt every muscle in his body tense. Careful, a voice screamed in his head, careful. Quietus was testing him again. Betraying and executing a defenceless man in cold blood did sound rather dishonourable, but if he said what he thought, he would be implicitly criticising the most powerful man in the Roman world, Trajan himself.
“No Sir,” Fergus said quickly, “I shall carry out my orders Sir.”
“Good,” Quietus replied, as he reached for his cup of wine, “spoken like a true soldier.”
* * *
Parthamasiris, the Armenian king was late Fergus thought, as he stood patiently waiting amongst the throng of over a hundred eager and excited Roman officers who had gathered around the emperor. Idly Fergus glanced in the direction of Trajan, who was sitting on a magnificent-looking throne that had been placed outside in the middle of the camp, just beyond the principia. Trajan looked annoyed. The emperor appeared older than Fergus had expected and he was dressed in his fine purple imperial toga and the laurels of victory crowned his head. Standing clustered around him like an inner-guard, were his principal commanders and standard bearers, all clothed in their majestic and splendid armour, cloaks, animal skins and helmets and holding up the proud, legionary eagle-standards. They formed a most impressive spectacle and, amongst the men Fergus caught sight of Hadrian and Quietus. It was just after noon and several days had passed since he’d dined in Quietus’s tent. Lining the main camp thoroughfare where Trajan awaited the arrival of the Armenian king, over three-thousand fully-armed legionaries, specially chosen for their height, stood in massed, rigid lines forming a long and narrow lane down which every Armenian noble had been forced to walk. The legionaries had placed their polished and gleaming shields at their feet, so that they formed a continuous wall from which there was no escape. As an effective demonstration of the power of Rome it could not be bettered.
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