“Sir,” Crispus spoke suddenly from beside him, “I apologise about my comments earlier at the crevasse. I should not have said what I said. You are of course correct. The survival of the ala comes before that of any single man.”
Fergus sighed and lowered his eyes and for a long moment he didn’t reply. Maybe that was the reason he could not sleep he thought, for fear that he would hear the lost man’s cries from deep within the earth.
“The scouts say that we have not made as good progress as they would have liked,” Fergus said at last, “They say that at this rate, we won’t reach the village until tomorrow evening.”
“We are pushing the men as hard as they can go Sir,” Crispus replied, his body shaking with cold. “I don’t think we can go any faster.”
“I know, I know,” Fergus nodded as he turned to look at his men, huddled around the dying fire. “So tomorrow when we sight the village we shall take up positions above it and attack at dawn on the following day. Let’s hope that bastard Zhirayr has not already moved on. That would be most disappointing.”
At his side, it was Crispus’s turn to nod. Then slowly the standard bearer turned to gaze at Fergus.
“Sir may I speak freely,” Crispus said in a determined voice, and something in his tone made Fergus turn and stare at his friend.
“Of course,” Fergus growled, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
“Well it needs to be said,” Crispus snapped as he took a deep breath, “The Seventh Cavalry is my life Sir. I have known all our commanders from the first time we all stood on parade in Carthage, twenty-nine years ago.” For a moment Crispus seemed lost in the past. Then staring at Fergus, he continued. “Before you joined us out in desert, we were a mutinous bunch of losers with a useless, thieving and abusive commander. But you changed all that. You gave us back our pride and discipline. I have seen the change in the men’s attitude. And I must say Sir, that I believe you when you say we are going to be the best, damn auxiliary ala in the army. That makes me very happy and proud Sir. But if you insist on trying to be a hero all the time, then eventually you are going to get yourself killed. Without your leadership, this cohort will be nothing. I have seen the commanders who they send to us and they have all been second or third rate. Not once have we been commanded by someone who is good. So, I have spoken with Hiempsal and the other officers and we are all in agreement.” Crispus paused. “Your job is to lead us,” he snapped. “The whole cohort is relying on your judgement and leadership. That is what we expect from you, Sir. Your job is not to act the hero. I have seen you risk your life during that assault on the cave, in single combat in the desert and by sneaking into enemy encampments. It must stop Sir. Let others do that work. If we lose you, then this ala will never be the best.”
Chapter Twen ty-Five - Unexpected Guests
Fergus crouched inside the ruins of the small shepherd’s hut and silently gazed down the open and grey, scree-covered mountain slopes towards the village that nestled in a green meadow, a quarter of a mile away. He looked exhausted, with dark wrinkles around his eyes. His white sheepskin coat was torn and filthy. During the freezing night spent high up in the mountain pass, he had barely managed any sleep. It was evening and in the fading light, he could make out the glow of a few, small campfires dotted around the small settlement. The light was too weak and they were too far away however, to make out any people. But amongst the huts a solitary dog was barking. Around him the high, rocky and desolate mountain plateau was covered in patches of snow; clumps of green grass; scree and huge jagged boulders. And amongst the rocks and gullies, safely hidden from sight, the two hundred men of the Seventh Cavalry sat and lay about, resting and waiting for Fergus to decide on what to do. He had forbidden them from lighting any fires, for fear of revealing their position. Crouching at Fergus’s side, Crispus and two of the Armenian guides were staring down at the Armenian village. Fergus’s nose twitched as he suddenly caught the scent of wood smoke. It had been two days since he’d last had a warm meal or drink.
“I count a dozen huts,” he said at last, “and six or seven campfires. So maybe fifty civilians and twenty or thirty warriors. A fair estimate?”
“It’s hard to be sure but I think that is a fair estimate,” one of the Armenians nodded.
Fergus grunted as he gazed at the village. At his side, Crispus was quietly studying the terrain leading down to the settlement. Ever since he had confronted Fergus during the previous night, and over the long, arduous trek across the mountain that had followed, the standard bearer of the Seventh Numidian Auxiliary Ala had been quiet and withdrawn. And at times Fergus thought he had sensed that Crispus was embarrassed. The awkwardness that had come between the two of them was new and Fergus did not really know what to do about it. He was about to say something else, when a commotion behind him made him look around. The third Armenian scout had entered the small ruined hut and was rapidly talking to his comrades. It sounded urgent.
“What is he saying?” Fergus demanded impatiently.
“Bad news,” one of the Armenians exclaimed hastily, “He says we have a problem. He thinks the weather is changing. A storm is coming in from the north. Looks like a bad one. When it strikes, we do not want to be caught out in the open. I know these storms. They can go on for days. Lightning strikes, torrential rain, freezing temperatures. It’s not good. You are going to need to find shelter fast or you will lose more men. We are very exposed up here.”
Fergus swore as he turned to stare at the Armenian. “Is he sure about this storm?”
In reply, all three Armenians nodded at the same time, their faces suddenly anxious.
With a frustrated growl, Fergus turned his attention back to the village and for a moment he said nothing, as he tried to make up his mind.
“All right, Crispus,” Fergus snapped, turning to his standard bearer. “Change of plan. We go in tonight. We will take the village. Find Zhirayr and use the Armenian huts to sit out this storm.”
“You mean Sir, to attack in the darkness?” Crispus replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the village.
“That’s right,” Fergus nodded. “We have the element of surprise. We will use their campfires to guide us in. I want two columns, one to envelop the village from the right and the other from the left. You will lead the left and I will take the right. No one must be allowed to escape. No one. We are only going to get one chance at this. Kill any man who puts up a fight. If there are women and children in the village they are not to be harmed. I know the men have not seen a woman for a while,” Fergus said harshly, “but if any man is caught attempting to rape a woman, I will have them executed on the spot. Make sure that the men understand and are ready to go as soon as it’s fully dark. The village shall have unexpected guests tonight. That will be all.”
“Very well Sir,” Crispus said, as without looking at Fergus, he rose to his feet and hastened out of the ruined hut to carry out his orders.
Fergus did not watch him go. Instead, his attention was back on the village. A night assault across unfamiliar, broken terrain on an enemy position, whose strength he did not fully understand was risky. A multitude of things could go wrong. The worst of which was that their approach would be discovered, giving the enemy the chance to escape in the darkness and confusion. If that happened, the whole epic trek across the mountain would have been for nothing.
* * *
In the darkness, the small glow of the approaching campfires was the only light. Stoically, Fergus crept on down the scree-covered slope towards the village, desperately trying not to disturb the loose stones and broken slate. He had placed his magnificent plumed centurion’s helmet, on his head, so that when they reached the fire-light his men would recognise him. In his right hand, he was holding a Numidian javelin. Dangling across his chest armour, suspended on a string was a fine-looking Armenian hunting horn. The night was quiet except for the laboured-breathing of the man directly behind him and the trickle and clatter of a few, small stones. In the village however
, a dog had not stopped barking. Fergus swore softly, as he nearly lost his footing before steadying himself. In the darkness, he could see nothing and without a torch to guide him, the going was slow and treacherous. Behind him, his silent men came on in single-file, clutching their javelins and small, round shields. The men had bound pieces of cloth around their boots to deaden the sound of their approach. With their left hands, they were holding onto the loose hanging cloaks of the man in front of them, so as not to lose their way in the dark.
As he crept towards the village Fergus suddenly heard an Armenian voice crying out. Instantly he halted, but as he held his breath nothing happened and, amongst the peasant huts all seemed normal and peaceful. Maybe the man had just been telling the dog to shut up, Fergus thought grimly. Taking a step forwards, Fergus started out again. Soon he sensed that he’d left the scree fields behind and was moving through the grassy meadows that surrounded the village. And as he reached the far end, he halted, crouched in the grass and turned to face the settlement. The dog had not stopped barking and somewhere in the darkness he could hear the bleating of a flock of sheep and goats. In the mountain meadow, the Numidians had come to a halt and in the darkness, he knew that they were waiting for the order to attack. Fergus bit his lip as he peered at the small, faint flickering lights coming from the small settlement. It was impossible to see or know whether Crispus and his men were in position on the other side of the village. How long should he wait?
Taking a deep breath, Fergus reached for the hunting horn that dangled around his chest, pressed it to his lips and blew, paused and then blew again. The sombre noise rent the stillness of the night. It was the signal to attack.
“Up. Up. Get in there,” Fergus bellowed, as he rushed towards the village. And as he did, the night was suddenly filled with noise and the sound of running men. Racing towards the nearest campfire, Fergus caught sight of figures rising to their feet in alarm. With a cry, Fergus flung his javelin at one of the men and yanked Corbulo’s gladius from its sheath as he charged into the village. By the campfire a man screamed and collapsed to his knees, whilst another man staggered backwards into the flames, impaled by a javelin. As he did so the fire caught hold of his clothes setting him alight like a candle. Savagely Fergus dodged the desperate, slashing lunge from an Armenian armed with an axe, and swiftly buried his sword in the man’s neck, sending the unfortunate warrior tumbling backwards onto the ground with a fountain of blood, spewing forth from a severed artery. Ignoring the gurgling, dying man, Fergus strode on into the settlement. Screams and terrified yells abounded around the village and in the faint, firelight Fergus caught sight of people rushing around in panic and confusion. Grimly he strode on deeper into the settlement as around him the Numidians were everywhere; kicking down the doors of the huts and finishing off the small band of outnumbered enemy warriors with savage revenge. From the confusion and chaos, a furious, howling woman suddenly came rushing straight towards Fergus, armed with a small, bone knife but just as she was about to thrust her weapon at him, two Numidian javelins struck her body, spinning her sideways and sending her knife flying from her hand.
As he reached the small, open and grassy space at the centre of the village, Fergus calmly paused to gaze around at the chaos. The peasant huts seemed to be grouped around a small mountain shrine, made up of a heap of dry stones, packed on top of each other. Within the shrine stood a small well-tended stone statue, dedicated to some Armenian deity. Ignoring the shrine, Fergus turned to stare at the huts and the corpses, that lay scattered across the ground. The fight was already nearly over. It had been an easy victory. They had caught the village completely by surprise. But where was Zhirayr? Beside a hut on the other side of the village, Fergus suddenly caught sight of the gleaming metallic banner of the seventh cavalry and a moment later he recognised Crispus. His standard bearer was clutching a burning torch liberated from a fire, as he hurried across the space towards Fergus. And as he did so, from the other side of the small settlement, Fergus caught a glimpse of Crispus’s men moving through the village like ghosts.
“Gather all survivors, the wounded and the corpses of the dead over here; women, children, everyone,” Fergus yelled gesturing with his bloodied sword at the open space around the small, stone Armenian shrine. “Tell the villagers that we shall not harm them if they co-operate.” Raising his sword, Fergus gestured at the village. “I want a ring of guards around this place. No one leaves until we have found Zhirayr. I want that man found. And get someone to silence that fucking dog.”
* * *
In the glow of the campfires the forty-odd surviving villagers looked subdued and terrified, as they knelt on the ground beside the mountain shrine. The men, women and children had their heads lowered to the ground. Their legs had been tied together and their hands bound behind their backs. Three women, clutching babies to their chests were the only ones that had not been tied up. The women were desperately and unsuccessfully trying to stop the incessant and unnerving wailing of their infants, which filled the village with a piercing and disturbing noise. Behind the group of survivors, lying dumped in the grass, were the corpses of the dead, as well as some of the wounded. And standing around the clearing in small groups - the stoic, silent Numidian’s were keeping a stern and careful watch.
“Nothing Sir,” Crispus said with a small, disappointed shake of his head, as he came up to Fergus. “We have searched every inch of the village. Everyone we could find is here and the Armenians have checked the dead. They say that Zhirayr is not among them. Nor is he amongst the survivors. They know who he is and back at HQ the tribune supplied me with a good description of what he looks like Sir. I am sorry. He’s not here.”
“He is here,” Fergus growled in a stubborn voice. “We just need to find him. Have the men search the huts again and get the Armenians to interrogate the villagers. That bastard is hiding around here somewhere. I know it.”
Taking a deep breath, Fergus glanced up at the dark skies. There was no sign of the moon or the stars but in the darkness, he had caught the forked-flash of lightning, followed by a faint rumble of thunder. The storm was nearly upon them. Slowly he strode up to the front of the group of miserable looking people kneeling on the ground and gazed down at the Armenians in silence. And as he did, one of the scouts appeared at his side, gazing intently at Fergus with a tense, anxious and guilty look.
“Tell them,” Fergus said in a calm voice without looking at the scout, “that I mean them no harm. I have no quarrel with them but I am here because they have given shelter to an enemy of Rome. Tell them, that if they show me where Zhirayr is hiding I shall leave them in peace. But if they lie to me, there will be consequences. Make them understand that I am only interested in Zhirayr. I want to know what has happened to him and where I can find him.”
For a moment, the Armenian guide standing beside Fergus remained silent. Then swiftly he turned to his people and spoke in a loud, rapid and monotonous voice. But as he finished speaking, no one answered him. Fergus was about to ask the guide to repeat himself when, from the back of the group of prisoners, a man suddenly cried out. At Fergus’s side, the Armenian guide hesitated.
“He says that he knows Zhirayr,” the Armenian guide stammered. “He says that he was here in the village, but that he left several days ago.”
Fergus’s eyes narrowed and for a moment he did not act. Then pointing at the prisoner who had spoken out, he gestured for the guards to bring the Armenian to him. As the man was unceremoniously forced down onto his knees in front of the group of survivors, Fergus calmly pulled his pugio army knife from his belt and slit the man’s throat, sending him collapsing to the ground in a pool of growing blood. And as the man tumbled sideways onto the grass, a cry of terror swept through the ranks of the prisoners.
“Tell them,” Fergus said calmly, “that if they do not reveal where Zhirayr is hiding I will execute the next man and so on, until I know what has happened to him. The choice is theirs.”
The Armenian guide
had gone pale and for a moment he looked unwell. In a stammering voice, he translated Fergus’s words. As he fell silent, one of the women clutching a baby to her chest cried out, tears running down her cheeks and as she did, she pointed in the direction of one of the huts – a mere ten yards away.
“What’s she saying?” Fergus snapped, as he stared at the woman.
At his side, the Armenian scout was staring at the woman in confusion. Then hastily he turned to Fergus.
“She says that Zhirayr is here. He is hiding over there in a hole beneath that hut.”
Swiftly Fergus turned around and stared at the hut to which the woman had pointed. The simple single space dwelling looked just like the others.
“Crispus,” he bellowed, “I thought we had searched every inch of this place.”
“We have Sir,” the standard bearer protested, as he too turned to stare at the Armenian home. “Twice.”
“Tear that hut apart,” Fergus exclaimed pointing at the dwelling.
As the Numidians swarmed around the hut, Fergus observed them with a hard, silent glare and just as he was about to give up hope of finding anything, he heard a sudden excited shout from inside the hut.
“Sir, we have found something!” Fergus heard Crispus cry out from inside the dwelling. With a few quick paces, Fergus was at the entrance and, as he gazed into the simple, one room home, he saw Crispus and several Numidians crouching on the ground. Crispus was holding up a flaming torch and in its light, Fergus saw that the men had uncovered a hidden and camouflaged spider-hole, in the ground below the hut. As he stared at the tiny, dark hole, the face of a bearded-man suddenly appeared in the torch light.
“Drag him out,” Fergus cried triumphantly.
“Is this him?” Fergus cried, as the man was roughly dragged from the hut and flung onto the ground in front of the Armenian scout. “Is this Zhirayr?”
Armenia Capta Page 26
