Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  As the last of the Parthian horse archers galloped away, Fergus could see that the enemy was regrouping just out of range. Amongst his own men, the casualties seemed light but the Parthian missile attack seemed to have left an indelible mark on the Romans. If this was what they would have to endure for the rest of the day, then matters looked bleak. The missile duel between the Parthian horse archers and his own slingers and Syrians was the key to the battle, but it was now clear that he didn’t have enough missile troops to stop a determined attack.

  On the crest, the steady mechanical noise of the carroballista, shooting at the enemy mingled with the horrible screaming of the wounded. A few slaves were hastily carrying the Roman wounded into the relative shelter of the Armenian ruin. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Fergus glanced towards the river. There was no sign of Hiempsal and his Numidians.

  “Here they come again,” a voice screamed and Fergus saw the Parthian horse archers surging forwards towards him. From their position’s higher up the slope, the Syrian archers and slingers sent a volley of arrows and lead bullets flying straight at the charging horsemen, and in reply a barrage of arrows came whining and thudding into the Roman positions. Here and there a man collapsed to the ground. Wounded men cried out and beyond the stoic, Roman lines, horsemen and horses went crashing and screaming to the ground. Urging his horse on along the back of the Roman line, Fergus stared at the missile duel, oblivious to the arrows whacking into the shields and ground around him. There was nothing he could do. The fight was turning out to be a battle of attrition and stamina. Once more, the Parthian horse archers regrouped out of range, as they mustered their courage for another blistering assault on the Roman lines. On the slopes of the hill, the gaps in the Roman line were being swiftly filled by men from the second and third ranks, but the steady trickle of casualties was growing. Anxiously Fergus turned to stare at the enemy. The Parthian cataphracts had not joined the battle yet and seemed to be content to observe from their massed positions. The heavy horse armour and long, fearsome-looking lances, glinted in the sunlight.

  “Have the artillery direct their bolt throwers against those cataphracts,” Fergus said, turning to one of his anxious-looking messengers. “Even if they are out of range. Let’s try and lure them into the battle. Go. Go.”

  Hastily the messenger rode off towards the line of carroballista up on the crest of the hill. Tensely, Fergus urged his horse on down the rear of the Roman legionary line, crying out encouragements to the men. Then turning to observe the massed heavy Parthian cavalry, he saw the first of the Roman artillery bolts thudding into the ground around them. The range was extreme and the aim poor, but suddenly Fergus noticed a change. Whatever it was, desperation or sheer frustration, the Parthian heavy cavalry lowered their lances and started to move, first at a walk and then a canter. And as they did Fergus gasped. The massed cataphracts were going to make a charge. They were going to try and smash through the Roman infantry line with brute force. The decisive moment had come.

  “Prepare to receive cavalry,” an officer’s voice screamed, as the Roman legionaries became aware of the massed ranks of heavy cavalry bearing down on them. The Parthian cataphracts were now at full gallop. Fergus suddenly blushed and his left leg shook with uncontrollable fear, as he stared at the wedge-shaped mass of heavy horsemen thundering towards the thin and silent Roman lines. The sight of the Parthian charge was terrifying. What had he done? The earth shook and the cries of his men were lost in the din of the battle and yet the stoic legionaries stood their ground and not a man fled from his position.

  “Steady men, steady, steady,” an officer’s voice screamed.

  From their positions up the slope the archers and slingers rained a furious barrage down on the enemy, but the arrows and bullets were not enough to halt the juggernaut, that was about to crash straight through the Roman defences. Then as the first of the Parthian cataphracts were only fifteen yards away and surging up the slope, along the line, the Roman legionary officers bellowed their orders and, with a great cry, the second and third ranks flung their spears straight at the enemy. At such close range, it was impossible to miss, and as they rode straight into the Roman spear barrage the lead horsemen went down in a great churning, screaming, tumbling mass of beasts and men, instantly blunting the charge. But the momentum and the shock of the Parthian charge was too great. Despite the chaos at the base of the hill, many horsemen crashed straight into the Roman lines, their heavy lances smashing apart the dense, infantry formations and wreaking terrible damage on the defenders. Here and there the Roman line buckled and crumbled, forcing sections back up the slope. Instantly the ordered Roman line was thrown into chaos and it became every man for himself. The screams of the wounded and dying were eclipsed by the vicious, snarling and desperate fight between the legionaries and the cataphracts. But as the fight swiftly descended into a massed, close-quarters brawl, Fergus could see that the Roman line had been forced backwards but it had not been broken.

  “Kill them, slaughter them, they belong to us,” a Roman voice yelled.

  Fergus resisted the urge to ride to the hard-pressed legionaries aid. He had to stay in command and try to control the battle. That was his job. Down on the slopes, the ugly and savage hand-to-hand combat between the Roman infantry and Parthian horsemen raged on. But in this kind of fight the legionaries had the upper hand. The Parthian cataphracts, brought to a standstill and unable to manoeuvre, suddenly found themselves vulnerable and surrounded by heavily-armed legionaries. Fergus gasped as he stared at the fighting. The Parthians were beginning to lose the fight. Dragged from their horses, more and more Parthian knights disappeared amongst a mob of frenzied Roman bodies.

  “Bring up two infantry companies from the other side of the hill and have them attack the enemy on each flank. One to the right and one to the left,” Fergus cried out, as he turned to the messenger sitting on his horse beside him. “I want them to envelope the enemy and try and surround them. Go.”

  “Yes Sir,” the young man blurted out, as he turned his horse and hastened away up the slope.

  “Cornicen,” Fergus said turning quickly to his trumpeter, “give the signal for our Numidian cavalry to attack. Sound it twice. Do it.”

  Pressing his instrument to his lips, the cornicen blew on his trumpet and the mournful noise echoed away across the battlefield. There was no way of knowing whether Hiempsal had heard him, Fergus thought. He would just have to wait and see. Down on the slopes the ferocious, screaming melee was continuing. And suddenly amongst the mass of yelling and struggling horsemen, Fergus caught sight of a man clad in splendid armour with a horsetail-crested helmet and, at his side another Parthian was holding up a red banner. It had to be the enemy commander and he looked trapped.

  The clink and rattle of armour made Fergus turn around. Running in single file towards him down the slope of the hill, were the two infantry companies of legionary reinforcements, both led by their company centurions.

  “Left flank,” Fergus yelled, pointing at the melee on the slopes in front of him. “Right flank. Surround them and finish them off,” he shouted.

  The legionaries said nothing as they rushed down the slope and joined their comrades and, as he saw the legionaries force their way down the Parthian flank, Fergus clenched his fist in sudden satisfaction. The battle was turning in the Romans favour. He was going to win.

  “Sir, look,” the cornicen cried out suddenly as he pointed at something.

  Wrenching his attention away from the hand-to-hand combat on the lower slopes Fergus cried out in fierce joy as he suddenly caught sight of hundreds and hundreds of horsemen, racing across the rolling open country. The horsemen were Numidians and they seemed to be in hot pursuit of what remained of the Parthian horse archers. Hiempsal had returned. Freed from the threat of a counter attack from the Parthian cataphracts, the Numidians were attacking the light-horse archers and seemed to be doing so with glee. The tables had turned.

  At the base of the hill, with the
arrival of the Roman reinforcements, the brutal melee had now swung decisively in the Roman’s favour. Desperately the Parthian knights lunged this way and that as they tried to fend off the swift, stabbing Roman short swords, but in this close-quarters fight their long, heavy lances were useless and, as their horses crashed squealing to the ground, the chaos and confusion grew.

  “I want the enemy commander,” Fergus roared again, as he pointed in the direction of the magnificently clad Parthian warrior, “Seize him, seize him.”

  But just as the Parthian horsemen seemed to be overwhelmed a small group of cataphracts lunged forwards and, with desperate valour and strength, they broke through the enveloping Roman line and fled as fast as their horses could carry them, harried by spears and arrows and lead bullets. And amongst the small group of fleeing Parthians was the enemy commander and his standard bearer.

  “Shit,” Fergus roared in frustration. “Shit!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Advance Down the Bitlis Pass

  Fergus, accompanied by his small staff, sat on his horse beside the edge of the dusty path, watching his troops as they came marching past. It was morning and two days had gone by since his men had repulsed and decisively beaten the Parthian cavalry force. The aftermath of the battle had been a horrendous sight. One of his senior officers had estimated that more than half the Parthian force had been slaughtered in their futile bid to dislodge the Romans from their position. Dead and dying men and horses, torn apart by arrows, spears, bullets and swords, had lain scattered across the ground, around the base of the hill. The great masses of dead meat had quickly attracted swarms of flies and other scavengers and, in the sweltering heat, the dead had rapidly started to stink and bloat. The grotesque sight of dead horses, lying on their backs with their legs sticking up into the air and men half-crushed beneath the weight of their beasts, had made even the most hardened veteran go pale. Fergus had ordered his men to finish-off and put out of their misery all the enemy wounded, for he did not have the resources to care for them. It had been a hard but necessary decision. And as for his own casualties, the corpses of seventy-eight legionaries and slingers, plus fourteen Numidians, had been flung onto a heap and they had burned their dead that night. But for the hundred and forty plus wounded, there had been no relief. The screams of the badly wounded had gone on all night, preventing most of the survivors from getting any sleep. And the following morning, there had been seven more corpses that needed to be burned. It had been grim work and Fergus was conscious that in one fight, he’d effectively lost over ten percent of his force. But that had been yesterday and today he thought, as he took a deep breath, the advance into the Bitlis pass should continue. The Armenian scouts, who were accompanying his force, had told him that he would be able to move through the pass in one or two days.

  As the wagons carrying the wounded came trundling along the track in single file, Fergus nudged his horse into action and slowly began to keep pace with the lead cart. The wounded men, some wrapped up in army blankets had been placed in every available spot amongst the force’s food supplies and other equipment. They looked pale and exhausted and here and there, the jolting, swaying wagons caused some to wince and cry out. Further down the column, the more seriously wounded were screaming, but no one seemed bothered anymore. The screams of the wounded had become just another part of the environment. Riding alongside the wagon, Fergus nodded a polite greeting to one of the two army doctors who had accompanied his force. The doctor looked utterly shattered, as he sat at the very back of the wagon, his legs dangling into space. The two army doctors had worked feverishly and non-stop for two days, trying to save the wounded, but in some cases, all they could do was give the men opium to sooth the pain. The gods would decide if they would live or not, one of them had growled, when Fergus had paid their makeshift hospital a visit.

  Turning his attention away from the wounded, Fergus gazed up at the steep, arid, bone-dry and treeless mountain slopes that hemmed in the narrow river valley. There was no sign of human habitation to be seen. The tribune who had handed him Quietus’s written orders, had told him that the Bitlis Pass was the only route south through the mountains and onto the plains of Mesopotamia. And he’d warned Fergus to be wary of ambushes. To Fergus’s right, below the embankment upon which he and his men were riding and marching, the shallow Bitlis river meandered its way down the sharply twisting valley - it’s gushing and foaming waters tearing around corners and over rocks, as they swept along at speed, on their way to feed the mighty Tigris to the south. Fergus was peering absentmindedly at the gleaming waters, when a cry up ahead, wrenched him back to reality.

  “Where…the commander,” a voice was shouting, “Where…Fergus? It…urgent.”

  “I am here,” Fergus bellowed.

  And a few moments later, Hiempsal appeared and came swiftly riding up to Fergus accompanied by two Numidian horsemen. He looked flustered and his partially-shaven head was covered in grime, dust and sweat.

  “Trouble…Sir,” Hiempsal barked in his atrocious Latin. “That way,” he said pointing down the valley. “Enemy…block the pass.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Fergus hissed, as his face darkened.

  Gesturing for Hiempsal to follow him, he urged his horse on and, closely followed by his small staff, he galloped on down the long Roman column. As he approached the vanguard, he saw that the legionaries and Numidian horsemen had come to a halt along the confined space between the steep, mountain slopes and the river. The men seemed unsure of what to do. Slowing his horse to a walk, Fergus ambled towards the foremost ranks of the Roman column. A group of dust-covered Numidian scouts were milling about on their horses, gazing silently down the embankment that led deeper into the mountain pass. And, as he peered beyond them, Fergus could see why the Roman advance had been halted.

  Blocking the path southwards was a great man-made barrier of stones; abandoned and overturned wagons; wooden stakes and rocks. Stretching from some way up the steep mountain slope, the crude wall ran right across the embankment, down to the edge of the river, before continuing along the far bank and rising up the slope. And standing on top and behind the barrier, right the way across the river, were the massed ranks of what looked like thousands of armed warriors. Fergus gazed at the enemy in silence. The warriors were armed with a vast array of differing weapons and, from their ragged unorganised display and motley appearance, this could not be a professional army. To Fergus it looked more like a muster of hastily-conscripted militia, farmers, shopkeepers and armed civilians.

  “Parthians?” Fergus said tensely, as he turned to the Armenian scouts standing close by.

  “No,” the Armenian shrugged, “I am not sure.” The man frowned as he stared at the men blocking the pass. “They look a mix of many peoples. Those archers up there on the slope - they are Armenian and so are some of the footmen. But most look like they are city dwellers from the south. Maybe they have come Nisibis or Edessa to try to halt our advance.”

  Fergus said nothing, as he turned again to inspect the enemy positions. For a long moment, he remained silent as he tried to decide what to do.

  “You,” Fergus said at last, turning to the Armenian scout, “I want you to go up to them and demand that they surrender at once. If they agree to lay down their weapons, we shall let them go in peace and without penalty. This offer will only be made once. If they refuse, you are to tell them that things are not going to work out well for them and the consequences will rest on them. Have you got that?”

  The Armenian scout suddenly looked nervous, but nevertheless he nodded that he’d understood. For a moment, Fergus watched the scout, as alone, he strode out towards the barrier of stones and rocks that blocked the path. Then quickly Fergus turned to Hiempsal and his staff.

  “Bring up the carroballista and the Syrians and the slingers,” he said sharply, addressing himself to his messengers, “I want two companies of legionaries out in front to protect them. Five ranks deep should cover the whole embankment. If these
arseholes are so stupid as to refuse to surrender, we are going to have to teach them a lesson in how the Roman army fights its battles.”

  Sir,” the two messengers said, as they saluted and, at the same time and turning around, they galloped away down the stranded and stationary Roman column.

  “Hiempsal,” Fergus said in a clear, slow and patient voice. “Mass your men directly behind the artillery and wait for my command. If the enemy refuse to surrender,” he added in a harsh voice, “you are to kill them all. But wait for my signal. Understood?”

  “Understood Sir,” Hiempsal nodded, as an excited gleam appeared in his dark eyes.

  Watching his Numidian cavalry commander ride away, Fergus slowly shook his head. He was getting lazy and complacent he thought. It would have been better to have Crispus translate his orders for there was always the possibility that Hiempsal had misunderstood. But Crispus was with the rear guard and Fergus could not hide the fact that he enjoyed being able to speak directly to his Numidian commander. It felt right.

  Turning his attention back to the barrier that blocked the path, Fergus saw that the Armenian was already coming back. As he approached the man wearily shook his head.

  “Well” Fergus growled, as he gazed at the scout.

  “I gave them your demand to surrender,” the Armenian said with a sigh, as he came up to Fergus and turned to gaze back at the enemy ranks. “The polite version of their reply is that you can go and kiss a goat’s arse.”

  Fergus shook his head, as he too turned to stare at the massed enemy ranks manning their barricade. “Fools,” he hissed. “So be it.”

  * * *

  The crack of the scorpion bolt-throwers echoed down the narrow, river valley and, as the first of bolts shot away towards the enemy positions, the artillerymen were already rushing to reload. Fergus sat on his horse and observed the work from close by. The scorpions, mounted on their carts, were being aimed by a single shooter whilst another man oversaw the manoeuvring of the cart and his comrades helped with the loading of the long, powerful bolts. In front of the massed carroballista, the heavily armed legionaries had formed a solid wall of shields and spears, that effectively blocked the embankment leading down to the river. A shout from above him made Fergus look up, and as he did, from their positions on the steep mountain slope, he saw the Syrian archers and slingers gracefully raise their bows and slings and send a volley of missiles straight at the enemy archers further down the valley. Outranged and with little natural cover to protect them, the Roman missile barrage was devastating and men tumbled and collapsed to the ground, with shrill cries and screams. Another barrage followed and more bodies went rolling down the steep slopes and, as the crack of the scorpions joined in, the enemy pickets seemed to have had enough and began fleeing across the slopes.