As the translator translated Fergus’s words, the trader started to look distinctly unimpressed and annoyed, but he had the good sense not to put his feelings into words.
“He agrees,” the Greek said triumphantly as the merchant turned and bellowed something to his own people.
***
As Fergus watched the trade caravan moving away up the road, he sensed Britannicus riding towards him. The young tribune too was gazing at the merchants and their heavily laden pack animals.
“Was that wise Sir to let them go like that?” Britannicus said as he came to a halt beside Fergus. “They could report what they have seen. There could be spies amongst them.”
“Sure,” Fergus replied nodding, “There is a chance of that. But news of our approach is going to be impossible to hide and we can’t kill everyone we meet. I think they were a genuine caravan. The Palmyran guides spoke to the leader and they seem satisfied he was speaking the truth and we found no weapons amongst their trade goods.” Fergus paused, as he gazed at the disappearing caravan. Then he turned his attention back to the road leading eastwards. “Come we must keep moving,” he growled. “There is still some way to go before we reach Fallujah.”
The village nestled amongst the green, cultivated fields that bordered the blue waters of the Euphrates. It was getting late, as Fergus leading his troopers approached the small settlement of mud brick huts and bleating goats. The village was the first that they had come across. A goat-herder holding a stick was the first to see them and after a moment’s hesitation, the boy went racing into the village followed moments later by a barking dog.
Cautiously Fergus kept to the road as he eyed the small cluster of mudbrick huts and reed covered roofs. The village looked poor but the fertile fields that surrounded it were filled with an abundance of crops, wheat, barley, millet, rice and date palms. A few women, wearing head scarves were bent over; at work in the fields. They straightened up as they heard the barking dog and gazed impassively at the approaching Roman column.
Suddenly a furtive movement beside one of the huts caught Fergus’s attention. A man stepped forwards whirling something above his head and a stone bullet smacked into the shield of one of his cavalrymen. The attack was followed by another man carrying a bow, who stepped out of the cover of another hut and released a solitary arrow that thudded into a horse’s flank sending the beast crashing and screaming to the ground and throwing its rider.
“Britannicus take a squadron around the edge of the village,” Fergus roared as another stone sling shot went whizzing past. “Cut off their retreat. The rest of you follow me!” And without waiting for an answer, Fergus turned his horse, pulled his long cavalry Spatha sword from its sheath and went galloping towards the village. He was immediately followed by a mass of charging Roman horsemen. Amongst the cluster of mud-brick huts, Fergus caught sight of six or seven men frantically sprinting across the fields towards the blue waters of the Euphrates. Amongst their crops the women too were running but back towards their homes. They were screaming as they ran. Swerving amongst the huts, Fergus urged his horse on after the men who had attacked them. The bank of the river was protected by a long man-made dyke, to prevent flooding, and as he galloped across the fields ahead of him, one of the running men tripped, but as he rose to his feet he was swiftly cut down by a sharp Roman sword. The foremost fugitives had reached the dyke and were desperately clambering up it, when Britannicus and his men came charging along the top of the dyke, their long steel swords gleaming in the sunlight. One man was nearly decapitated before the remainder sank to their knees and raised their hands, crying out in terrified, pleading voices.
Grimly Fergus slowed his horse as he came up to the survivors. The men were looking up at the Roman cavalrymen and pleading with them in their unintelligible, alien language.
“Where is the fucking translator?” Fergus bellowed as he turned to look around.
“I am here Sir,” the Greek cried out in a hasty voice, as he rode up to the group of angry, frustrated looking Roman horsemen.
“Ask them why they attacked my men,” Fergus hissed, his face dark with anger as he turned his attention to the captives. “And tell them that if I don’t like their answers. I will burn their village and hang each one of them from those trees over there.”
As the Greek translated, the kneeling survivors seemed to all speak at once, their desperate terrified faces turning to look from one Roman to the next.
The Greek translator cleared his throat as he prepared to translate the answer. “They were told that you Romans,” the Greek translator paused. “That you would eat their infants and drink the blood of their women. They were ordered to fight and resist you.”
“Who ordered them to do this?” Fergus snapped as he stared at the captives.
“The King Sir,” the Greek replied at last. “They say that the King of Kings, Osroes, has ordered everyone to resist and fight the invaders. He has issued a proclamation across all the lands between the two rivers. Any man who fails to resist the invaders is a coward; to be cast out of his village and home.”
“And where is the king now?” Fergus growled.
“They don’t know Sir,” the Greek said at last, after he had finished listening to the panic-stricken voices of the men kneeling on the ground. “They are just simple farmers. But they say that the king is more afraid of his internal enemies than of the Roman invasion. They say that the king of kings is a weak man.”
“Ask them if they know where the main Parthian army is encamped?” Fergus snapped.
As he finished translating and listening to the reply he received, the Greek shrugged and turned to Fergus.
“They say Sir,” the Greek said carefully. “That as far as they know there are no significant Parthian forces between here and Seleucia. Most of the fighting men are away fighting Osroes’s rival in the east.”
“Are they saying that Seleucia and Ctesiphon are unprotected?” Fergus said as he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes Sir,” the Greek replied. “That seems to be what they are implying.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight – Bluff or Desperation
On both sides of the narrow Royal river the columns of marching Roman legionaries and auxiliaries stretched away to the horizon. The rhythmic tramp of their heavy boots, the thud of horses’ hooves, the mooing and braying of pack animals and the groan and creak of dozens of wagons, filled the morning air. Out on the canal Fergus could see a long convoy of boats, tied together by thick ropes and piled high with supplies and provisions. All were heading eastwards towards the Tigris. The sight of the Roman army on the march was magnificent. Looking tired and unshaven, Fergus led the cavalry troopers of his reconnaissance group in the opposite direction, as he searched for the legate of the Third Cyrenaica and his HQ staff. The cavalry troopers were walking their horses in a long single file, their uniforms and horses soaked with sweat and stained with dried mud. Around them in the pleasant, green, muddy and irrigated fields that had replaced the desert, a vast abundance of crops could be seen and amongst the greenery Fergus could see villages of mud-brick with reed covered roofs. The locals had paused in their labours in the fields to stare in silence at the foreign invaders.
A sudden commotion on the other side of the narrow canal caught Fergus’s attention. On the far bank a column of legionaries, at least a thousand strong had come to a halt and were turning to face something in the fields to the north. The harsh cries of the legionary officers rang out, drifting across the canal. Fergus frowned. What was going on? The legionaries seemed to be forming a battle line. Then he gasped, as amongst the green fields to the north, he suddenly caught sight of a band of horsemen clustered around a man who was holding up a banner. The horsemen were Parthians but there were only thirty or forty of them. Fergus raised his eyebrows in surprise as across the canal the small band of Parthian horsemen slowly started to form a wedge and move towards the Roman line.
“What the fuck are they doing,” Britannicus called
out, as he too stared at the scene. “Are they going to attack? That is madness, suicide.”
Fergus said nothing as he stared at the approaching band of horsemen. Down the column of Roman cavalrymen following him, every eye had turned to stare at the small band of Parthian riders. On the other side of the canal, the Roman legionaries had formed a line, three deep with the first ranks down on one knee, their spears and shields forming a barrier of steel and wood. In the fields the Parthians had begun to pick up the pace as their wedge moved towards the Romans and, as he gazed at them, Fergus suddenly saw their target. Amongst the mass of legionaries, he caught sight of the gleaming eagle standard, the Aquila of the Third Gallica. The Parthians were going to make a glorious but foolish attempt to capture the legionary eagle. It was madness, sheer desperation. The Parthian holding up his own banner must be a local lord and the riders with him his men at arms. There could be no other explanation.
On the other side of the canal the brave band of Parthians suddenly cried out. Raised their weapons in the air and broke into a gallop as they charged the Roman lines. Fergus slowly shook his head in wonder. As the Parthians with their proud lord at the very point of the wedge came charging towards the Romans, they were met by a murderous volley of spears that brought down every single man and horse in a horrible, screaming tangled crashing mess. From the Roman lines a roar rose, as the legionaries swiftly ran forwards to finish off their fallen enemies. The fight was over. Slowly Fergus turned to look away. What madness had infected men to so needlessly sacrifice themselves? And as he thought about it, an uneasy realisation came to him. The local population did not want the Romans here.
***
The legate of the Third Cyrenaica and his staff were mounted on horses and were leading a column of legionaries along the bank of the canal. Catching sight of the gleaming golden eagle standard, Fergus hastened towards them.
“Sir,” Fergus cried out as he rode up to the legate and saluted. “I received your message to report to you in person. You said you had new orders for us.”
The legate glanced sideways at Fergus as he kept moving. “Yes,” he growled. “Parthica are away on the other side of the canal screening our northern flank. That means Scythica get the honour of being the first to reach Seleucia. I want you to take your men and ride ahead to the city. Trajan wants Seleucia to fall quickly and preferably without a fight. You are to convey a message to its citizens from the emperor. If the city opens its gates to us, the inhabitants shall be spared and treated with respect. However if they close their gates to us, then they shall perish, their city shall be stormed and burned and the survivors sold into slavery. They will probably tell you to fuck off, but Trajan thinks it’s worth a try. Is that clear tribune?”
“Yes Sir,” Fergus said with a nod. Then quickly he turned his horse away and calling out to his men to follow him, he started out at a trot heading south-eastward along the Royal river.
***
The walls of Seleucia were like nothing Fergus had ever seen before. Huge blocks of stone had been hewn and precisely fitted together, forming an imposing and formidable defensive barrier two or three miles long. Mightier and higher than those of Antioch, the walls were reinforced by huge towers and on the battlements, Fergus could see small figures and proud, streaming Parthian banners fluttering in the warm western wind. From within the city a horn suddenly rang out. Raising his fist in the air Fergus brought his two hundred and forty cavalrymen to a halt along the banks of the canal. The royal river seemed to end not far from the city. It was morning and as he gazed at the Mesopotamian metropolis, Fergus could see that Seleucia occupied a gridiron space along the western banks of the Tigris. In the flat flood plains around the city, the lush muddy irrigated fields were filled with crops and toiling labourers. Once more the horn rang out from within the city and this time the workers in the fields, catching sight of the Roman cavalrymen, broke into a sudden mass panic. Abandoning their animals and tools, the people started to run, fleeing towards the nearest city gate which was still open. Calmly, without moving, Fergus watched the mass panic he’d caused. Switching his gaze towards the city gate he could see that armed men had appeared just outside the entrance. They however seemed few in number and more concerned with the fleeing civilians than with the Roman cavalry patrol.
“The gates are still open,” Britannicus exclaimed in an eager voice. “Should we not try to rush them now Sir?”
“Rush them,” Fergus replied with a frown, as he watched the fleeing populace. “Those are not our orders. This is a city of around three hundred thousand people. You want to capture such a huge place with just two hundred and forty men?”
“It crossed my mind Sir,” Britannicus said with a confident grin.
“No,” Fergus said quietly. “There is only one way in which to capture a city of this size with the men that we have.”
“I don’t understand Sir,” Britannicus said.
Fergus sighed. It was time to let the young tribune in on the plan he’d been concocting and refining on the ride towards Seleucia.
“We are going to be the ones who capture Seleucia,” Fergus said in a quiet, determined voice, as he turned to his protégé. “History shall record that it was us. That’s going to be my achievement and I am going to do it with a ruse.”
“They are closing their gates on us Sir,” the cornicen cried out, as he raised his hand and pointed.
“So, they are,” Fergus muttered, as the huge iron-reinforced gates began to close. Not all the civilians had managed to pass into the city and the unfortunate ones now turned, fleeing and hurrying away southwards in the shadow of the massive fortifications. In the fields an abandoned cow was mooing loudly.
“Come, let’s introduce ourselves and see if my ruse works,” Fergus growled, as he gestured to his small escort and urged his horse towards the city gate. “The rest of you stay here out of missile range. Britannicus, raise the white flag and keep an eye on those archers up on the walls. Let’s hope they understand the meaning of a white flag.”
Cautiously Fergus rode up to the city gate, keeping a tense eye on the bowmen he could see up on the walls. Behind him Britannicus, holding up the white flag of truce, remained silent as he too gazed up at the Parthian defenders. But as the small party of Roman horsemen approached the gates, no one took a shot at them and all remained quiet. Pausing a few yards from the massive sturdy-looking iron-reinforced gates, Fergus examined them. It would take a battering ram some considerable time to break them down and, from the construction of the gates he could see specially designed holes in the roof, from which the defenders could hurl boiling oil and other incendiary material. Raising his head, he looked up at the defenders peering down at him from their fortifications.
“Translate,” Fergus snapped as he turned to the nervous looking Greek translator sitting on his horse behind him. “Citizens of Seleucia,” Fergus called out in a loud voice. “Emperor Trajan and his army approaches your city. We are many. We are powerful. We have defeated your armies. We have come to end this war once and for all. Your king Osroes has agreed to an armistice and has agreed to surrender your city. Under the agreed terms you are to open your gates to us and allow my men to enter your city. In exchange you and your city shall be spared and treated with respect. Your leading citizens will retain their privileges and rank. Your merchants may go about their business unhindered. But defy us, defy the solemn agreement that your king has made, and your city shall be raised, and its population sold into slavery. Your city rights and privileges shall be forfeit. You have an hour to make up your mind and open your gates. After that, if your gates remain closed, we shall consider you in breach of the recently signed armistice.”
As the Greek finished translating the message in a loud voice, Fergus patiently made him do it again in Greek and then Aramaic. From the walls of Seleucia, the reply was silence. Gesturing for Britannicus and his small escort to follow him, Fergus turned to give the defenders up on the walls a final glance. Then slowly he
turned and coolly started to walk his horse away from the gates and back to where the rest of his recon group were waiting.
“I didn’t know an armistice had been signed,” Britannicus murmured from the corner of his mouth.
“No armistice has been signed,” Fergus muttered. “It’s a complete fabrication that I just invented but the question is, do the people of Seleucia know this. Do they risk going against the wishes of their king of kings?”
For a moment the young tribune looked shocked. Then a grin appeared on his lips and slowly he shook his head as the small cavalry troop re-joined their comrades.
“Let’s see if the ruse works,” Fergus muttered, as he turned to gaze back at the city. “Unless Osroes is himself inside the city, which I doubt, the citizens will have no time to find out the truth. They must decide now whether we are telling the truth or are bluffing. They will be taking a decision without knowing all the facts. Do they risk defying us and their king or do they surrender? We will know within the hour how much faith these people have in themselves and their king.”
***
Within the hour Fergus triumphantly clenched his hand into a fist, as he saw the gates into the great metropolis slowly start to open. Amongst the Roman cavalrymen an excited stir swept through the ranks. Peering at the gates, Fergus saw a small party of mounted Parthians coming out of the city. One of the Parthians was holding up a white flag. Urging his horse towards the Parthians, Fergus, accompanied by his staff and a small escort, rode towards the men, slowing his mount as he came up to them. The Parthians were clad in armour, helmets and had long black beards. They looked stern, sullen and unhappy, as they gazed at Fergus and his men. Patiently Fergus waited for the emissaries to speak first.
Across from him one of the Parthian’s, clad in fine rich robes, was the first to speak, doing so in a harsh, unapologetic sounding voice.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 36
