“Have the bowmen and slingers redirect their missiles at the men manning that wall,” Fergus cried out at one of his messengers. “Drive them off.” And as he finished giving his orders, Fergus turned quickly to the senior cohort centurion, who was standing beside him and who was watching the aerial bombardment.
“Centurion,” he snapped, “have your cohort drawn up in a wedge and prepare to assault that wall. I want it torn down. You are to clear a path down the valley. No prisoners, no one surrenders. They have had their chance.”
“Very good Sir,” the veteran replied, as he turned and hastened away.
On the slopes above him the Syrians, and the slingers seemed to have received his orders, for a volley of arrows suddenly went shooting down at the exposed men on top of the enemy barricade. The result was spectacular. Dozens of men were hit in the first barrage and tumbled down the side of the barricade or slumped down onto the stones and abandoned wagons. The enemy, most of whom were lacking armour or proper shields, were at a huge disadvantage. And it was only just dawning on them. As he stoically stared at the bombardment, Fergus saw the growing panic take hold. This was not going to be an even contest. The enemy screams turned to desperation as a second volley swept the remainder of the defenders from the barricade, forcing the survivors to crouch and huddle for protection behind the rudimentary barrier. Glancing around to peer along the packed and crowded embankment, Fergus saw that the infantry cohort was nearly in its wedge position and ready to begin its assault. The four hundred or so heavily armoured legionaries, with their cohort commander at the very apex, looked a formidable and menacing sight, as they crouched behind their large shields with their spears poking outwards, like some gigantic iron hedgehog.
“Tell the vanguard to fall back,” Fergus said, calmly turning to his staff and gesturing at the two legionary companies that were blocking the embankment ahead of him. “Once they fall back, tell the cohort commander that he may begin his assault.”
Fergus looked on, as under the cover of volley after volley of arrows and lead bullets, the armoured Roman wedge slowly and silently began to advance, across no man’s land, towards the barricade. The discipline and training of the legionaries was superb as the four hundred men, crouching behind their shields, moved forwards without a single man falling out of formation. From the enemy positions came a sudden howl of defiance, but there was little the defenders could do to halt the advance. A few desultory arrows and spears smacked into the legionary shields but it was not enough.
“Tell the archers and slingers to stop shooting,” Fergus cried.
The centurion leading the Roman assault was nearly at the barrier, and as the hail of Roman missiles slackened and ended, a lone voice suddenly cried out and with a great roar the legionaries rushed forwards and stormed the barricade. Fergus looked on from atop of his horse, his centurion’s crested-helmet gleaming in the sun. Along the width of the narrow embankment, the barricade was suddenly swarming with Roman troops, as the men struggled to clamber up and over the barrier and the defenders tried to push them back. Furious and vicious hand-to-hand combat followed, but the better armed and trained legionaries had the upper hand and, as Fergus looked on, he could see that more and more Romans were pouring across the barrier and starting to drive the enemy backwards with their shields and short swords. Along the narrow embankment there was no space to manoeuvre and the only place for the enemy to go was backwards.
“Sir, look,” the cornicen cried out in alarm.
On the other side of the Bitlis river, the enemy troops positioned to block the pass were surging towards the river, intent on attacking his column in the flank. But, as their foremost men came running and splashing into the shallow, rushing water, their weapons raised in the air, they were met by a murderous hail of arrows and bullets that cut many of them down in full stride. Bodies went crashing, tumbling and spinning into the water and onto the rocks, as the Roman archers and slingers broke up the attack before it could even get close. The second wave, following on behind, seeing the fate of their comrades, seemed to hesitate and as another volley of missiles tore apart the few survivors, the enemy infantry started to back away and then rapidly the attack lost all cohesion, as the enemy turned and fled.
Along the embankment the legionary assault was gaining traction and Fergus could see that the main enemy force was beginning to waver.
“Give the signal for the Numidians to attack,” Fergus said, turning to his cornicen. The last move of his battle plan was about to enacted and it was no doubt going to be the bloodiest.
A moment later the trumpet rang out ordering the cavalry advance. Fergus turned to look back down the crowded embankment and as he did, he caught sight of Hiempsal leading the Numidians of the Seventh down the slope towards the rocky, shallow river. And amongst them in the dazzling sunlight he saw Crispus, holding up the proud and gleaming cohort banner. As they calmly and carefully navigated around the barricades blocking the embankment, the Numidians suddenly picked up speed and urged their horses’ up the slope and towards the noisy infantry melee, threatening the enemy flank.
“They are breaking Sir, the enemy are fleeing,” one of the officers beside Fergus suddenly cried out in delight.
And it was true. The sight of the Roman horsemen appearing along the river below the embankment, must have been too much for the hard-pressed defenders. As Fergus peered at the fighting, he suddenly saw the mass of enemy infantry begin to fall back and, as the retreat gained momentum, it suddenly turned into a rout. In the blink of an eye the enemy lines disintegrated. It was every man for him-self now. And as they ran for their lives, a tidal wave of shrieking terror seemed to go roaring down the river valley.
“They are done for,” the officer cried out in an excited voice, as he stared at the great mass and multitude of desperately fleeing figures, “The Numidians are going to massacre them. There is no escape.”
Fergus said nothing as stoically he stared at the enemy rout.
* * *
Slowly Fergus made his way on horseback along the embankment followed by his staff and as he did, he peered at the bloody carnage his men had wrought. The Numidians and legionaries had carried out his orders to the letter. The debris of the battle lay scattered all around. Abandoned weapons, body parts, dead horses and equipment. It was a terrible sight. The bodies of the slain lay scattered along the path in great heaps where they had been cut down. Many of them, he could see, had been killed by Numidian javelins and, as Fergus continued down the valley he could see that the massacre went on and on. The Numidians had shown no mercy and had ridden down the fleeing, routed enemy with brutal and bloody efficiency. Around the river he could see corpses, floating on the current and splayed across rocks, many with javelins sticking out of their backs. The enemy infantry’s attempt to escape had been in vain, as he had known it would be. Fergus took a deep breath as he gazed at the carnage. The steep slopes of the confined river valley had become a death trap. From what he’d seen, there had to be several thousand-enemy dead scattered along the river valley. The battle had ended in a massacre. Along the path, small, weary and bloodied groups of legionaries and Numidian horsemen stood and sat around, resting amongst the bloody debris. The men looked weary but triumphant.
Galloping down the track towards him, Fergus suddenly noticed a Numidian rider. The man looked in a hurry and his tunic was torn and covered in grime. He was still clutching his small round shield. Recognising Fergus, the man rode up to him and silently beckoned for him to follow. Fergus frowned, as he suddenly recognised the urgency and despair in the man’s posture. What was going on?
Urging his horse on after the Numidian, Fergus trotted on down the corpse-strewn path. Up ahead he suddenly caught sight of a small cluster of Numidians. The men had dismounted from their horses and had formed a small circle. Some were crouching, their hands pressed to their foreheads and all were staring at something that lay on the ground. And as Fergus approached, a horrible thought suddenly made itself felt. As
he slowed his horse to a walk and approached the small group, Fergus caught sight of Hiempsal. The Numidian commander’s face was pale and he looked visibly shaken. Amongst the Numidians some of the men were weeping shamelessly as they stared at a body lying on the ground. And as he drew closer, Fergus groaned as he caught sight of Crispus, lying dead on the ground. The standard bearer of the Seventh Numidian Auxiliary Ala had been caught by a spear in his chest.
“Oh no, no,” Fergus muttered as he closed his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Fall of Singara
January 115 AD – Northern Mesopotamia
It was raining as the column of Roman horsemen rode across the grey, semi-arid plains in a long, single file. The treeless, gravelly, semi-desert extended to the horizon - open and barren. Around the mounted column the few, green farmer’s fields were deserted, except for a flock of bleating sheep tended to by a lonely shepherd and his dog. To the north, in the distance, the arid slopes and ridges of Mount Sinjar were just about visible. Fergus looked sombre, as he led his men towards the fortified city of Singara, that dominated the landscape and rose out of the plains a mile away. The stone walls that protected the city looked formidable, but it had not given the populace enough courage to defy general Lusius Quietus, he thought sourly - for the Parthian city had fallen to Quietus, without putting up a fight. The news of the capture of Singara had spread rapidly, throughout the Roman garrisons in the newly conquered eastern lands. Coming so soon after the news of Emperor Trajan’s capture of Nisibis and Edessa, the news had bolstered Roman morale and it had sent Quietus’s reputation and popularity soaring to new heights. The war was going well and the new frontier was being rapidly established. And now the great general had summoned him and the Seventh Cavalry to join him. Fergus did not know the reason. For the past four months, he and his Numidian troopers had been confined to their fort on the Tigris, guarding and patrolling the Bitlis pass. Upon the establishment of his fort on the banks of the Tigris and the Bitlis river, orders had come that had relieved him of the command of the legionary infantry cohorts, archers, slingers and artillerymen. Once more he had become just the prefect of the Seventh Numidian Auxiliary Cavalry Ala. It had been a boring, lonely and uneventful posting, made worse by Crispus’s death. With his standard bearer’s absence, Fergus had realised how much he had relied on Crispus to help run his unit. After the battle, he’d ordered his friend’s body to be carried to the new fort and, in a solemn ceremony in front of the entire ala, Crispus’s body had been burned with full military honours. The last original member of the cohort was gone, fallen in battle after twenty-nine years-service. And as the Numidians had said goodbye to Crispus, Fergus had finally realised how deep and widespread his friend’s popularity amongst the troops had been. It had been a moving moment.
Ahead, the gates of Singara were guarded by a squad of legionaries and there were more Roman soldiers up on the walls. A team of artillerymen, manning a scorpion, swivelled their weapon in his direction as he approached the gates. Raising his hand in greeting, Fergus called out to the suspicious guards.
“Seventh Cavalry, I have orders to report to General Quietus.”
“Wait here,” the watch commander replied, before turning to say something to his men. Moments later one of the legionaries vanished through the gates and into the city. Patiently Fergus raised his fist in the air and behind him in the driving rain, the long column of Numidian horsemen came to a slow, walking halt. Wearily, Fergus looked around. Why had Quietus summoned him to Singara? Task Force Red’s units were spread out over a vast area on garrison and anti-insurgent duties. What did Quietus want? Was there some special mission in store for him?
“Seventh Cavalry,” a young tribune called out, as he hastened through the gates towards Fergus. “All right, follow me. Quietus was expecting you two days ago but it doesn’t matter. I shall show you to your barracks. You won’t be disappointed. These Parthians like their horses. You will see what I mean.”
Pumping his fist up in the air, Fergus silently ordered his horsemen to follow him as in single file he passed on under the gates and into the city. As he followed the tribune through the narrow streets, Fergus gazed around him. The low, mud brick buildings crowded around him and in doorways and amongst the merchant’s stalls, he caught sight of silent, hard-faced men staring at him with unsmiling faces. And in some doorways children were peering up at him, with frightened, yet curious expressions until they were shoed inside by partially-veiled women. Catching sight of the women, Fergus was left in no doubt that he was not welcome in Singara.
As the tribune led him and his men deeper into the tangle of alleys and narrow streets of the town, Fergus stopped looking at the locals. If Rome was hoping to turn these people into loyal, tax-paying citizens, it was going to take a long, long time. The cavalry barracks, where he and his men were to be billeted, were however impressive and seemed to have formally been owned by a wealthy Parthian noble whom had fled the city. As Fergus and his Numidians clattered into the spacious courtyard of the barracks, Fergus saw the fine rows of stone stables and the mountains of hay piled up within them. The tribune had not been lying. The barracks looked a veritable luxurious palace compared to what he’d been used to.
“Quietus has instructed me to tell you that he expects your company at a victory feast he is giving tonight, in the former governor’s palace,” the tribune said as he turned to face Fergus. “So, make sure you are there before nightfall.”
* * *
The feast seemed to have already started as Fergus, still clad in his dust-covered uniform and with his centurion’s helmet tucked neatly under his arm, silently followed the slave down a long corridor. Burning braziers lined the walls and from up ahead, he could hear the noise of laughter and boisterous voices. The palace in which he found himself had once belonged to the former governor of Singara, but the man and all his family had fled the city at Quietus’s approach and now his house belonged to the Roman army. Emerging into the main chamber, Fergus saw a dozen or so senior army officers sitting about on chairs and reclining on couches. The men seemed to be in a good mood. In the middle of the room, a table was covered with a vast array of food dishes and drinks. And from a corner, incense was wafting into the room. One of the officers had found an abandoned harp and was trying to play the instrument much to the amusement of his colleagues. Quietus, clad in a Parthian noble’s finest clothes, was sitting slumped on a throne-like chair at the head of the table, a cup of wine in his hand. Noticing Fergus as he stepped into the room, Quietus did not acknowledge him and instead raised his cup to his lips and looked away. Quietly Fergus took a seat and as he did, a slave presented him with a cup of watered down wine, which he took gratefully.
For a while, Fergus was content to remain silent and pick at the dozens of different food dishes that sat on the table. The food was incredibly rich and a complete contrast to the simple rations he’d enjoyed on campaign and in camp. Around him, the senior officers, most of them a lot older than himself, ignored him as they amused themselves and slowly stuffed and gorged themselves on the captured Parthian supplies. An hour had passed before Quietus suddenly clapped his hands together and rose from his throne.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Quietus cried out, raising his cup. “A toast to our success. A toast to all of you and to Task Force Red. Long live Emperor Trajan.”
In reply, the officers raised their cups in loud agreement. “Long live Trajan, long live the emperor and his family,” they cried boisterously.
Suddenly Fergus noticed that Quietus’s eyes were fixed on him.
“I want to introduce someone to you all,” Quietus exclaimed, as the room fell silent. “That man over there,” he said pointing at Fergus, “his name is Fergus and he is one of my best officers.”
Fergus stared back at Quietus in stoic silence, as all the men in the room suddenly turned to gaze at him.
“He joined us a year ago in Antioch,” Quietus said sharply. “Hadrian sent him to me with the recomme
ndation that he be placed in command of all the logistics of Task Force Red despite having no such experience. Hadrian likes a joke - he is a joke.” As he spoke, the officers in the room laughed. Quietus smiled as he waited for the noise to subside, but there was a hardness edged under his smile.
“So, I sent him away to command one of our desert forts, to turn around the mutinous scum of the Seventh Cavalry. I wanted to see what kind of a man he was.” Quietus paused, as he turned to look around the table. “Two months go by. Then suddenly I start to get reports from the desert. Arab raiding parties being destroyed; tales of single combat and covert missions to poison the enemy water supplies. Hell, I even believe this man over there created a new Numidian god. Now that is some achievement for a mortal.”
A smatter of polite laughter filled the room, as Quietus turned to gaze at Fergus.
“In Armenia,” Quietus continued, “he crosses over the roof of the world and brings us Zhirayr. And then, when I give him a larger command, he manages to destroy a Parthian cavalry force and smash his way through the Bitlis pass. That was no small feat, no small achievement.” Quietus paused and, as he stared at Fergus, his eyes glinted in the fire-light. “So, I think gentlemen,” Quietus said slowly, “that this man deserves our respect. He deserves a round of applause.”
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