Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  The Armenian blinked rapidly and, as his colleagues hastily rushed to his side, the three scouts peered intently down at the silent, composed man lying on the ground. Then one of them looked up at Fergus and as he did, a broad, triumphant smile appeared on his lips and he nodded.

  “Yes. It’s him. It’s Zhirayr,” the Armenian cried out, his voice shaking with excitement.

  * * *

  Fergus sat on the ground, his back resting against the stonewall of the crowded Armenian hut. Outside the summer storm howled and whined, lashing the land with rain, wind and the occasional rolling thunderclap. Sitting beside him, Crispus was gazing silently at the cohort standard he was holding in his hands. The storm had been going on for hours and showed no signs of abating and Fergus and his men had had no choice, but to seek shelter from it within the Armenian homes. Wearily Fergus leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He’d had a short sleep but the violence of the storm had forced him awake. Around him, the low murmur of the Numidians and villagers talking amongst themselves filled the hut, as all tried to make the best of the awkward, enforced time together.

  Opening his eyes again, Fergus slowly glanced sideways at Crispus.

  “You are right,” he muttered. “I have been trying to be a hero and it is going to get me killed one day. Better to stay alive.”

  Crispus did not answer, as he stared at the gleaming cohort banner and Fergus sighed and looked away.

  “I come from a military family,” Fergus said in a quiet and resigned voice, as he wearily stared into space, “My grandfather, Corbulo; he was a legionary with the Twentieth Legion. He was a good soldier. An honourable man. He fought in the battle against Boudicca, the barbarian queen in Britannia. That battle saved the whole province from being overrun and lost. Fifty-five years ago. And after that, he rescued my father from a life of slavery in Caledonia. He knew Agricola personally. And then there is my father Marcus, he’s a senator in Rome. Another good, honourable man. Served his time with the Batavian cohorts in Britannia and on the Danube. He saved his whole unit during the Brigantian uprising. And finally, there is me, son and grandson of honourable men, respected and decorated soldiers.” Fergus suddenly looked sombre. “I want to make them proud you know. I want to make my family proud.” Fergus paused and shook his head. “But what I did to that prisoner, killing him in cold blood like that, does not make me feel very honourable or proud. Nothing about fighting this insurgency in these mountains is honourable. It’s all shit and I am sick of it.”

  At his side Crispus raised his eyebrows as he gazed at the cohort banner.

  “You did what you had to do,” the older man sighed. “You got the job done. We have Zhirayr. That’s all that matters.”

  Crispus cleared his throat and then slowly turned to give Fergus a little encouraging grin.

  “If you are feeling guilty and worried about what the gods think of you, don’t Sir,” Crispus said quietly. “My experience with the gods is that they do not give a shit about us or a man’s honour. Only men care about such things and we are the masters of our own fate, Sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Building Tra jan’s New Frontier

  “He will see you now,” the young tribune said.

  Quickly Fergus rose to his feet, clasping his centurion’s helmet under his arm, and without looking at the tribune, he stepped into the luxurious army tent. It was dawn and in the army camp close to the shores of Lake Van, the trumpeters were signalling the changing of the guard. Inside the tent General Quietus, together with a few senior officers, was standing beside a large table, frowning and peering down at a large-scale map covered with small army counters. Quietly Fergus strode up to the table and saluted smartly and, as Quietus looked up and caught sight of Fergus, his expression changed.

  “Fergus,” Quietus exclaimed looking pleased and grinning from ear to ear, as he came around the table to affectionately clap both Fergus’s shoulders. “Well, well, the hero of the day. The man who captured Zhirayr and almost single-handedly crushed the Mardi.”

  “There was an opportunity Sir and I took it. That’s all,” Fergus replied modestly, his eyes gazing into space, as he stood to attention in front of the general.

  “Leave us,” Quietus said sharply, glancing at the senior officers. Then turning to Fergus, Quietus shook his head.

  “Nonsense,” the general exclaimed. “The capture of Zhirayr was a worthy feat. It was a great achievement. It has dealt the insurgents a body-blow. The Seventh Numidians will be mentioned in the despatches sent to the emperor and to Rome. You are turning out to be quite a soldier Fergus. First you turn around that mutinous bunch of Numidian killers at that desert outpost and now you do this. I am lucky to have a man like you under my command, yes lucky, Fergus.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Fergus said stiffly, as a blush appeared on his cheeks.

  “Stand easy,” Quietus said, as he turned and moved back around the table. “I have read your report. Snow-shoes.” Slowly Quietus shook his head in amazement. “Who would have thought that my men would be borrowing the natives snow-shoes in pursuit of their duty? Impressive Fergus. That took some balls to cross over that mountain pass in those conditions. I understand that you took casualties.”

  “We did Sir,” Fergus nodded.

  “And I see that you promised half the reward for Zhirayr’s capture to your Armenian guides. That’s a lot of money.”

  “Without them we would never have made it across the mountain Sir. I believe five hundred denarii for the capture of Zhirayr is justified.”

  Across from him, Quietus’s face suddenly cracked into a smile. “Well spoken,” he said in a quieter voice. “So, what should I do with the rest of the reward? No one man claims to have personally captured Zhirayr. In your report, you say that you were all present.”

  “That’s right Sir. May I suggest,” Fergus said, “that the remainder of the reward be placed in my cohort’s pay chest, as contingency money Sir. One never knows when that money may come in handy.”

  “Five hundred denarii, nearly two years wages for an auxiliary,” Quietus raised his eyebrows. “That will allow you to give one hell of a party for the men.”

  “Not out here in these wastelands Sir,” Fergus replied, and as he did, Quietus laughed.

  “Very well. I will have the money deposited with your standard bearer for safe-keeping.”

  Fergus nodded in gratitude and then awkwardly looked around the tent.

  “Come and have a look at this,” Quietus said, as he gestured for Fergus to attend to the table and the map that lay spread out across it.

  For a moment, the tent remained silent as Fergus looked down at the large-scale map. The geography was alien to him and meant nothing, but it was clear that the small counters denoted infantry, cavalry and naval forces.

  “Trajan has begun building his new eastern frontier,” Quietus said. “The old frontier created by Nero and Vespasian is no longer tenable or desirable and so we have decided to simplify it, to include the annexation of Armenia. It is a sound and honourable frontier that the emperor seeks and we have made a start. Roads, watchtowers, bridges, forts, supply dumps, fortifications it will all have to be built from scratch. That’s why we are out here.” Quietus paused to study Fergus carefully. “Now I am going to give you an insight into the bigger picture Fergus,” he continued. “An ambitious soldier like you, should have some understanding of the grand strategy. So, pay attention.”

  “Yes Sir,” Fergus said as he gazed down at the map.

  “Trajan’s frontier starts here,” Quietus said, tapping one extreme end of the map, “at the Red Sea port of Aila. From there it follows the newly-constructed road - the Via Triana Nova, through the desert to Petra, Bostra and northwards towards Damascus and Palmyra. The old frontier, which you know well from your days in the desert, followed the road from Palmyra to Sura on the Euphrates, but this is being moved eastwards. This sector of the frontier will now run north eastwards from Palmyra to Zenobia on the Eup
hrates. From there,” Quietus said, moving his fingers across the map, “the frontier will descend the Euphrates river to the city of Circessium. We hope to go beyond Circessium and capture the city of Doura Europus further downstream. Doura will be a valuable outpost on the route south.”

  “What about the Parthians Sir,” Fergus said quickly, as he studied the map. “Have they made any moves to thwart us?”

  Quietus shook his head. “No,” he replied. “They are weakened by civil war. Apart from peace envoys and diplomatic protests regards our annexation of Armenia, there has been no real Parthian response. The polite explanation is that King Osroes is too weak to fight, but personally I think he is just scared of us.”

  Fergus nodded as he gazed at the multitude of small military counters, denoting individual Roman army units that lay scattered across the map. It was an impressive deployment, covering over a thousand miles of terrain. The frontier fortifications he knew were not just for defensive purposes but could equally be used as a base and supply line for offensive operations into enemy territory. And as he stared at the counters and the map, Fergus realised that now was the time when he should reveal to Quietus what Parthamasiris had told him, just before he’d died. He should inform the general. That was the correct and right thing to do. It was his duty. The news that Parthian spies and agents were fanning out across the Roman east with the purpose of funding and inciting rebellion against Rome, was a serious matter. But as he gazed at the map, somehow, Fergus could not bring himself to do it.

  “Something on your mind,” Quietus snapped.

  Fergus blinked and took a deep breath. “I was just thinking that it is not much of a war if King Osroes will not ride out to meet us in battle, Sir,” he said hastily.

  “Maybe one-day Osroes will remember that he is a man,” Quietus shrugged. “Now,” Quietus said switching his attention back to the map, “I was showing you the frontier. From Circessium here on the Euphrates, Trajan wants the frontier to run north eastwards along the Chaboras river until it reaches these ridges here, just south of the city of Singara. The frontier will then run due east along the high ground until it reaches the Tigris River at Mosul. Once Mosul is in our hands and we have reached the Tigris, Trajan intends to descend the river as far as Hatra. The city of Hatra controls an important strategic position. It will make another useful outpost on the route south. From Mosul here, the new frontier will turn north east across the high mountains just south of where we are now, here at Lake Van, until it reaches the old eastern Armenian border on the Araxes river which drains into the Caspian Sea.”

  Fergus nodded as he peered at the sector of the map around Lake Van. The small cluster of military counters, south and east of the lake, signifying Task Force Red looked rather isolated compared to the vastness of the open space around them.

  “Questions? Speak freely.” Quietus said quietly. “I want to know what you think, Fergus.”

  For a moment Fergus was silent as he studied the map. Then he sighed and looked up at Quietus.

  “I presume that the place called Ctesiphon, the town marked with the Parthian flag is the Parthian capital. Is that where King Osroes has his court?”

  “It is,” Quietus replied.

  Fergus nodded and, reaching out across the map, he quickly tapped his fingers on the towns of Doura Europus and Hatra. “It is a good plan Sir, a strong frontier,” Fergus said. “It defends Armenia using the available natural barriers and, with these two outposts in our possession, we shall control the two river routes straight down towards Ctesiphon, the Parthian capital. It will be like holding two spear points aimed directly at the Parthian heart. King Osroes will not be able to sleep peacefully at night knowing that we can descend on his capital at any time.”

  Quietus chuckled and nodded. “Well spoken, yes you are right. That is Trajan’s intention. Two spear points aimed permanently at Ctesiphon. I could not have said it better myself.”

  Fergus straightened up. What was going on? Why was Quietus going to so much trouble and effort to show him the frontier? Surely this was a matter for the senior officers on Quietus’s staff and not for a prefect of a lowly auxiliary ala.

  Quietus was still studying the map and, as the silence lengthened Fergus raised his eyebrows. Something was going on. Quietus was up to something. He could sense it and the reason was about to be revealed.

  “Three days ago,” Quietus said suddenly, looking up at Fergus, “I received word from Trajan. The emperor is moving south with his army. The conquest of Armenia does not warrant the size of the forces deployed there, so Trajan has decided to move south and seize the cities of Nisibis and Edessa in Mesopotamia.” Quietus paused and there was a sudden calculating look on his face. “Nisibis is a large and important city and its citizens are loyal to Parthia, not Armenia. The citizens of Nisibis are expected to put up a stout resistance. Maybe the assault on the city will even stir that coward Osroes into action. Now, in his letter to me Trajan writes that he intends to take the Bitlis pass through the mountains. It is the easiest and quickest route to Nisibis and down into the plains of Mesopotamia. The Bitlis pass is not far from here. It is the gateway into Mesopotamia. The emperor has ordered me to send a force to capture the pass ahead of his advance.” Quietus raised his hand to stroke his chin as he gazed across the table at Fergus. “So, I am putting together a battle group of two legionary cohorts from the VI Legion, plus your Numidian cavalry and a few missile units of slingers and Syrian archers and some artillery men. I want you to take command of this force and seize the pass. Once you have seized your objective, I want you to secure it with a fort and hold it until Trajan moves on through. Do you think that you can handle that?”

  Fergus stood rooted to the ground and, as he stared at Quietus in stunned silence, he could not help blushing – the second time since he’d entered the command post. Two legionary cohorts, artillery, cavalry, slingers, Syrian archers! Quietus was talking about a proper battle group of at least two thousand men. Two thousand men!”

  “Yes Sir, I am ready to take command,” Fergus snapped as he saluted. “I will take the pass and hold it Sir. When do I leave?”

  “I will have your orders drawn up in writing,” Quietus replied. “One of the tribunes will give them to you. All your instructions will be included.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I am grateful and honoured by your trust,” Fergus said, turning to stare into space, as he felt his heart thumping away in his chest.

  “Good man,” Quietus nodded as he came around the side of the table to stand directly in front of Fergus. “This was not an easy decision Fergus. There are plenty of other more senior and experienced commanders who are going to be mightily disappointed that they were not given this command. But there is something about you,” Quietus said, narrowing his eyes, “something that makes me want to take a gamble on you. I have a good feeling about this. Give me time and I will make a general out of you yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Battle for the Bitlis Pass

  The path that ran alongside the Bitlis river was narrow and bone dry. Sitting on his horse, Fergus urged the beast on down the path, as he led his men southwards. The dust kicked up by fifteen hundred infantry-men, archers, slingers and artillerymen with their wagons and mules plus over four-hundred horsemen must be visible for miles Fergus thought, as he glanced up at the powerful August sun. It was nearing noon and it was uncomfortably humid and his lips were parched and cracked. And despite his white-focale, neck-scarf, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. But the discomforts of the march were nothing compared to the responsibility he felt weighing down on him. He was in command of a force of nearly two-thousand men. If only Galena and his family could see this. What would Corbulo, his grandfather, make of that! Not even his father Marcus, had ever been given such a command. Riding directly behind him was a standard bearer of the Sixth Legion, clad in his magnificent bear head-dress and holding up the vexillation banner of the Sixth. And riding on either side of him were a cornicen, a tru
mpeter and signaller with his large brass cylindrical-trumpet slung over his back, and two messengers. His small staff was completed by the presence of the two senior cohort centurions of the two infantry cohorts from the Sixth Legion, that formed the core of his force. The centurions, both battle-hardened veterans, nearly twenty years older than himself, had barely said a word since the column had set out for the Bitlis pass. Fergus bit his lip as he stoically gazed down the path. The officers might not be saying it, but he knew what they were thinking. They were trying to figure out how this young whelp had been placed in command of such a considerable force of men. Back at HQ on the shores of Lake Van, as he had been introduced to his senior officers, Fergus had sensed their disquiet and unhappiness, but being professional soldiers, they had at least managed to keep their thoughts to themselves unlike some of the tribunes. No, there was only one way in which he was going to win their trust and respect Fergus thought, as a determined glint appeared in his eyes. He would have to prove to them all that he could handle the responsibility.

  Up ahead, about half a mile away, Fergus could see that the shallow and rocky river entered a narrow and steep-sided valley, that seemed to wind its way deeper into the arid and treeless mountains. High up the mountain slopes, he caught a glimpse of a flock of sheep and a few Armenian huts, clinging precariously to the mountain side. It had to be the start of the mountain pass. Quietus’s written instructions had been crystal clear. He was to enter the gorge and establish a fort at the southern end, at the junction where the Bitlis ran into the Tigris river. And he was to hold his position until Trajan and his army had safely navigated the pass. Quietus had said that this would probably be before the fall of the first winter snows in late October. Twisting in his saddle, Fergus turned to gaze back down the long column of marching legionaries. The heavily-laden men were trudging along in silence, and the scrape and tramp of their heavy, army boots on the ground suddenly reminded Fergus of the invasion of Dacia.