Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  Across the campfire the two Armenian’s exchange silent glances with each other.

  “There is another path which we can take,” one of the Armenian’s replied at last. “But I would not recommend it to you. It involves taking the high mountain pass, but that is permanently blocked and covered in snow and ice. In places, it is said, that the snow is sixteen feet deep. The locals call the high pass the roof of the world! It will be a difficult and dangerous journey. Some of the sections in the pass rise above the clouds and when it snows and the wind is blowing, you will not be able to see more than a few yards ahead. The conditions up there are treacherous and tough and its freezing cold. Your men are not trained for such conditions nor do you have the right equipment.”

  “But if we were to use this pass to cross the mountains,” Fergus said sharply, staring at the scouts with a sudden gleam in his eye. “Would you be able to guide us to the village? How long would it take us to get there from here? Would we be able to attack the damn place without them seeing us first?”

  Once more the two Armenian’s exchanged quick glances with each other, and from their body language, it was obvious that one of them was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Then, after a brief and sharp exchange of words in their native language, one of them turned to Fergus and nodded.

  “From here it will take us two days to reach the start of the pass,” the Armenian said. “Then another two days to cross the mountains if conditions are normal. The high pass across the mountains will lead us to a position directly above the village, where the prisoner says Zhirayr is hiding. It is a good position from which to attack. I doubt very much that the villagers will be guarding and watching their rear. No one comes through that way. Why should they? With a little luck, if we survive the mountains, we should be able to achieve complete surprise.”

  “Good, good,” Fergus nodded with a satisfied expression. “And what sort of equipment would my men need for this journey?”

  The Armenian scout sighed and looked down into the camp fire.

  “You would need snow shoes like the local’s wear,” the scout replied. “You would need warmer cloaks and clothing, preferably in white so that you will not stand out against the snow and ice. You would need ropes to bind yourselves together like they do with the camels in the desert. Lastly you will need to leave your horses and mules behind. They will never make it through the pass. Any supplies that you wish to take with you will have to be laden onto sledges and dragged by hand, through the snow. Like I said, it will be difficult and if the weather changes it will become impossible.”

  “Snow shoes, ropes, sledges, winter-clothing,” Fergus muttered to himself and, for a moment he was back in Germania in deepest winter, fleeing across a frozen lake from a Vandal ambush.

  “If you are determined to go ahead with this plan then I am willing to guide you across the mountain pass,” the Armenian interrupted. But only on condition that we receive half the reward money for Zhirayr’s capture. That’s not negotiable.”

  “Half,” Fergus replied raising his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money for someone who isn’t going to have to do any fighting.”

  “Without us, you and your men will never get across those mountains. It is a fair offer,” the Armenian guide retorted.

  Fergus was silent, as he stared at the scouts. Then he nodded. “Half it is then,” he growled. Then stiffly he rose to his feet. “It is settled. We shall leave for the pass tomorrow at dawn. And regards the equipment that we need, we shall borrow and collect this from the villages that we come across.”

  “What about our wounded Sir?” Crispus said hastily.

  “There is a Roman held-village less than a day’s ride from here,” Fergus replied in a quiet voice. “Have a squadron escort the wounded to the fort. That’s the best that we can do for them. They cannot be allowed to slow us down. And under no circumstances are the men to be told the true nature of our mission. I want to keep this as secret as possible.”

  As Fergus strode away into the night to start checking on the wounded and the sentries, no one noticed the gleam in his eye. The capture of the insurgent leader, if he could pull it off, would not only make the Seventh Cavalry famous, but it should also ingratiate himself further with Quietus. And if he could win the general’s trust, he might just be able to find out the answer to the sensitive and highly political question of where Quietus stood in relationship to Hadrian.

  * * *

  “Holy shit,” Crispus groaned in dismay as he stood looking up at the barren, snowfields that covered the slopes and jagged cliffs with the mysterious summits vanishing into the clouds. “Snow sixteen-feet deep you say. We will never get across that shit. Not in a million years Sir. It’s madness.”

  It was morning and Fergus stood beside his standard bearer, gazing up at the brilliant white snowfields. He had never seen such brilliant whiteness. It was stunning and the fierceness of the glare and reflected-light hurt his eyes, forcing him to raise his hand and shield them. Across the steep mountain slopes and virgin snowfields nothing moved and the high mountain pass was eerily silent. Stillness the like of which he had rarely encountered. Over his armour Fergus was wearing a white sheepskin cloak with a hood covering his head. And, attached to his army boots, he was wearing round wooden and leather snowshoes, that had left a trail of imprints down the snow slope behind him. Taking a deep breath, he patted Crispus on his shoulder.

  “We will make it. Think about Hannibal and his elephants crossing the Alps. You will have a story to tell when we get back to camp,” Fergus growled, trying to sound encouraging.

  “Hannibal, yes Hannibal,” Crispus muttered absentmindedly, as he gazed up at the mountain slopes that vanished into the clouds. “But I already have many stories to tell Sir.”

  Fergus said nothing as he rubbed his hand against his forehead. Then turning around, he gazed back down the slope towards the abandoned Armenian village, that nestled high above the tree-line in a narrow valley, quarter of a mile below him. The settlement was small, just a few miserable-looking stone huts and Fergus wondered how the locals survived up here on the freezing, treeless slopes, over ten thousand feet above sea level. It was a clear, crisp August morning and he could see for miles and miles. To the north he had a splendid view of the rolling and beautiful country that surrounded Lake Van. And beyond the vast lake, to the north east on the horizon, he could just about make out Mount Ararat. The extinct volcano’s coned and snow-covered summit, fifteen thousand feet high, was an unmistakable signpost. Fergus took another deep breath as he took it all in. His battle group had only arrived at the deserted settlement the previous evening, after a long and arduous climb up steep and perilous mountain paths, that had forced the men to ride in single file. The high altitude had immediately started to cause problems and many of the troopers, not used to the altitude, had complained of dizziness and shortage of breath. And it wasn’t his only problem, Fergus thought wearily. Some of the more superstitious men had started to protest, saying that men were not supposed to go this high and so far into the realm of the gods.

  “You can stay here, with the horses and await our return,” Fergus said, as he glanced at his friend. “We do not have enough shoe shoes and equipment to take the whole cohort through the pass. I was going to leave Hiempsal here, with half the men to guard the horses, but it can be you who stays behind if you like.”

  Crispus was still staring up at the brilliant, untouched snowfields that led away up into the clouds, and for a long moment he did not reply. Then slowly the standard bearer turned to Fergus.

  “Of-course I am coming with you,” he snapped irritably. “Do you think that I would want to miss this? The Seventh Cavalry is my life Sir and I am its official historian. Twenty-nine years I have been with the ala. Have you forgotten that I am the only original member left from the first draft? Besides, someone needs to make sure you stay out of trouble!”

  * * *

  Fergus swore as he slipped, swayed and sank up to his waist in
to the soft snow. Just ahead of him, two legionaries, using their shovels to clear a path up the slope, were slowly toiling up the snowfield, the lower half of their bodies completely hidden by snowdrifts. If it hadn’t been for their snow shoes Fergus thought, the men would probably be up to their shoulders in the snow. Stoically, he heaved himself out of the snow and forced himself back onto the narrow path that his men were cutting through the snow and ice. His lips were bone-dry, cracked, and he was thirsty, but the Armenian scouts had warned him to conserve his water supply. It was afternoon and around him the mountains were silent and still. Moving up the mountain slope was proving vastly more difficult than he had been expecting, and their progress was painstakingly slow. Pausing to catch his breath, he turned around to look down the exposed mountain slope. The snowfield they were on, seemed to end in a sheer drop, half a mile straight down to the next spur. Coming on up behind him, in a long, single file the two-hundred motley dressed men of his battle group - some dragging Armenian sledges laden with supplies, were struggling up the snowfield. The men had been tied together by ropes, the dark lines snaking across the ground - a sharp contrast to the brilliant whiteness around them. Fergus gasped as he sucked air into his lungs. He’d left Hiempsal behind at the abandoned Armenian village, with half the men and all the horses and mules and strict instructions to wait for him for a week. “Two days” the scouts had told him. It would take them at least two days to cross over the mountain pass. If they were lucky and the weather did not change. As he gazed down at his men, Fergus could see that some of them were clad in warm, white Armenian sheep skins, but others seemed to have clothed themselves in anything they could find. Only the proud, gleaming, cohort standard poking up out of the brilliant white snow, gave away that the men belonged to a Roman military unit.

  As he felt the rope around his waist tighten, Fergus turned and started pushing up the slope after the Armenian guides. No one seemed in the mood to talk and, as they slowly plodded up the slope, wading through the deep soft snow, Fergus glanced up at the Armenian scouts, toiling up the path ahead of him. He was putting a lot of trust in them he thought, but the lure of being the one to capture Zhirayr was proving just too strong to ignore.

  Fergus had just paused to catch his breath, when suddenly the stillness of the mountains was broken by a distant crack. For a moment, nothing happened. Then one of the Armenians cried out in warning and pointed at something in the distance. Anxiously Fergus turned, and as he did, his eyes widened in horror. About a mile away a whole section of a snowfield was sliding down the steep slope, and as the avalanche gained speed, gigantic quantities of snow and ice went cascading down the mountain and over a precipice and into the void.

  * * *

  “You two,” Fergus called out, as he paused, gasping for breath and pointed at two legionaries standing behind him. “Take over ‘point.’ Use your entrenching tools to hack out a path if you must.”

  Silently the two men un-roped themselves, pulled their army pickaxes from their belts, and pushed past Fergus relieving, their exhausted comrades at the very front of the queue of men. Taking a swig of water from his water skin, Fergus shivered as he turned to gaze around him. It was getting late and the light was starting to fail. And, as it had grown dimmer, the temperature had started to drop fast. They had left the deep snowfields behind and now found themselves in a flattish, barren and desolate landscape of rocks, gullies, snowdrifts and ice. Ahead, the clouds and failing-light had reduced visibility to no more than thirty yards and, as he gazed back down the halted column, most of his men and the sledges were hidden from view in the swirling vapours.

  “Soon we will need to find a place to camp for the night,” one of the Armenian scouts said, turning towards Fergus. “It will be impossible to move in the dark and it is going to get very cold up here tonight.”

  Fergus nodded as he turned to look up at the grey swirling skies. His body was drenched in sweat and he had a raging thirst, despite having just drunk some water.

  “We push on until we find a suitable spot to spend the night,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”

  In response, the Armenians turned and stoically began to move forwards across the rugged, slippery and freezing ground directing the two “point men” in which way to go. How they could find their way in this visibility and in such utterly alien terrain was a mystery, Fergus thought. But without the local guides there was no hope of crossing the mountains. The Armenians were doing a good job.

  On the firmer ground, their progress seemed to quicken and Fergus was peering into the misty gloom ahead, when a sudden shriek, made the rope around his waist tighten, forcing him to an abrupt halt. Behind him, the long single file of men had come to a halt. But in the gathering gloom and swirling clouds Fergus could not see what had happened.

  “What’s going on?” he bellowed.

  But along the line of men coming on behind him, no one seemed to know. Then in the mist, Fergus heard the shriek again and this time it was accompanied by alarmed shouts and cries.

  “Fuck,” Fergus hissed, as he hastily fumbled with the rope around his waist. Untying himself, he quickly plunged back down the file of stationary, tired-looking soldiers, his wide and round snowshoes crunching into the snow. Ahead the visibility had reduced to twenty yards and, as he moved down the line, Fergus suddenly caught sight of a group of his men crouching and sitting in the snow around a dark, jagged chasm in the earth.

  “What happened?” Fergus cried out, as he came towards the men.

  The Numidians did not immediately reply. Their faces were stricken with horror as they gathered around the crevasse, peering down into the deep, narrow, dark hole in the ground. Coming to a halt, Fergus suddenly saw that one of the ropes binding the men together had snapped. And, as he stared at the broken rope, a heart-wrenching, terrified scream rose from deep inside the crevasse.

  “Oh fuck, fuck,” Fergus hissed, as he realised what had happened. One of his men had fallen through the ice and was now stuck, entombed in a crevasse. Getting down on all fours, Fergus cautiously crawled across the snow towards the dark hole that had revealed itself in the white ground. And as he did, the Numidians looked up at him, their faces pale with fear. One of the soldiers carrying a spare rope, had tied it to himself and to several comrades and was dangling it down into the hole, but there was no response from the man down in the crevasse. Gesturing for the Numidian to haul up the spare rope, Fergus caught the end as it slipped out of the ground and hastily tied it securely around his waist. Then lying flat down on his stomach, he started to inch towards the crevasse opening. As he reached the crevasse, Fergus cautiously peered over the edge and into the dark, jagged hole but in the darkness, he could see nothing. Looking up at a noise behind him, he saw Crispus hastening towards him. The standard bearer was calling out to the men clustered around the crevasse and in reply one of the Numidians cried out and pointed into the split in the earth. As he did Crispus’s face went pale.

  “They say Sir,” Crispus called out, as he crouched in the snow, “that their comrade is telling them that he thinks he has broken his leg and arm. He is in pain but they can’t reach him with their rope.”

  Fergus said nothing as he turned to stare down into the hole. And as he did, another shriek of pain and terror erupted from far below him. Slowly Fergus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do. He had no means by which to rescue the man.

  “We will have to leave him,” Fergus said harshly as he opened his eyes and began to crawl away from the crevasse. “I am sorry, there is nothing we can do for him.”

  “Sir,” Crispus exclaimed as he turned to stare at Fergus with growing horror, “we cannot leave him behind like this. This is terrible.”

  “We have no choice,” Fergus cried out angrily as he got to his feet, “I have two hundred men strung out across this mountain with darkness closing in. We do not have the equipment or the time to rescue him. If we don’t make camp soon, then we are going to lose more men.”
<
br />   “Sir,” Crispus replied looking shaken.

  “Get the men moving,” Fergus shouted in a savage voice. “And warn them to be careful about these holes. Tell them it will be a court-martial offence to untie themselves from the ropes.”

  * * *

  Huddled around the small fire, a large group of Numidians were trying to warm their hands whilst they still had enough fuel to keep the fire going. It was night and the whine of the icy, freezing wind, as it whipped across the desolate rock and ice bound mountain, had not ceased for hours. Fergus sat on a rock and reached up to re-adjust his neck scarf, raising the thin cloth over his nose. The cutting-wind was penetrating right into his bones and he was dog-tired, but he could not sleep. Beside him Crispus, hugging the cohort standard, was shivering and blowing furiously onto his gloveless fingers. In the gully in which they had taken shelter and camped out for the night, the men were trying everything to stay warm. Some had taken to sheltering behind the sledges, pressed up against each other for warmth under their thin, army blankets. Others had built small, snow walls behind which to shelter from the icy wind, whilst the legionaries had rammed their large, shields into the snow to form a windbreak. But despite their efforts, no one seemed to be able to sleep. Close by, a few men were murmuring quietly to each other, whilst in the darkness Fergus could hear the occasional cough above the soft whine of the wind.

  Wearily Fergus turned to gaze out into the darkness. In the fire-light he could barely see more than a few yards across the desolate rock and ice-bound mountain. Turning to look up at the thousands of cold twinkling stars that dotted the night sky, he slowly raised his water skin to his lips and drank. The ‘roof of the world’ he thought wryly. It was an apt name and as he lowered his water-skin and stared at the stars, his thoughts suddenly turned to Galena and his girls.