As the man finished speaking, the nervous Greek from Doura seemed to be struggling to translate the Parthian’s words.
“He says Sir,” the translator stammered. “He says that he is the governor and military commander of the great city of Seleucia and that he surrenders the city to you. He asks only that your men do not enter the city until your emperor arrives. He asks you to confine your men to guarding the city gate. He also wishes to obtain guarantees that his soldiers will be treated with respect and honour as is customary for an honourable, defeated foe.”
Slowly and coolly Fergus nodded his acceptance.
“Tell him that I accept his surrender and his terms,” Fergus replied. “Trajan shall be here soon. Tell him that he has made the right decision.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine – Across the Tigris
The legionaries had stripped to the waist, discarding their helmets, weapons and body armour and were sweating and groaning as bare-chested, they struggled to lift the portable boat up on to the wooden rollers. Close by, teams of ox and water buffalo stood ready to drag the flat-bottomed boat from the Royal river to the welcoming waters of the Tigris, a half a mile away.
“Come on, come on, put your backs into it,” a centurion roared as, clasping his vine staff, he strode along the teams of straining legionaries and huge horned water buffalo, which were hauling the boats through the fields. Fergus surrounded by his staff, stood watching the progress from the shade of a palm tree. It was morning and a day had passed since Seleucia had capitulated and Trajan and the main Roman force had arrived. The surrender of such a great city should have been a huge moment but apart from a pat on the shoulder from the legate of the Third Cyrenaica, Fergus had received no official recognition for his triumph. And the reason was clear. There was still much work to be done. Trajan and the senior officers were busy. Directly opposite Seleucia, across the Tigris on the eastern bank, the Parthian winter capital of Ctesiphon was still in enemy hands. But not for much longer, Fergus thought with grim satisfaction. Along the western bank of the Tigris, below the protective dykes, parties of legionaries were preparing to cross the wide, sluggish river. Under the palm tree, Fergus at last stirred, turned and followed by his staff he started out through the lush, waterlogged fields towards the earthen dykes that marked the edge of the Tigris river.
A mile to the north, the massive walls of Seleucia reflected the bright morning light and everywhere he looked he could see Roman soldiers, army tents, cavalry mounts, campfires, pack animals and wagons. There was no sign of any of the locals, who had been working these fields only yesterday. The crops that they had been tending had been trampled underfoot, ruined and squashed by the work parties, dragging their boats overland towards the Tigris. As Fergus approached the earthen dykes that ran along the western bank of the river, he could see the men of the First cohort sitting around, resting in small groups. At his command post close to another clump of palm trees, the cohort standard had been driven into the soft ground and the standard bearer seemed to be asleep, his back leaning against the wooden shaft. The legionary guards saluted smartly as Fergus entered the rudimentary shelter.
“How long before we go Sir?” Britannicus called out in a cheerful, excited voice.
Fergus glanced quickly at his protégé.
“Soon,” he growled. “They are hauling the boats across to the river now. Get some rest. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Have you ever taken part in a river assault Sir,” Britannicus asked as he pulled his pugio knife from his belt and turned to examine the gleaming steel.
“I crossed the Danube during the Dacian war. Does that count?” Fergus replied, as he sat down on a chair that had been taken from a nearby village and wearily rubbed his face with his hand.
“Do you really believe that the war will be over when we capture Ctesiphon Sir,” Britannicus said as he replaced his pugio in his belt.
“Shut up,” Fergus growled tiredly, as he closed his eyes.
Fergus’s chance at catching a quick nap however was short lived, for soon a hand was shaking him awake. It was Britannicus.
“Sir, message from the legate,” Britannicus said quickly.
With a sigh, Fergus rose to his feet and turned to the soldier standing in the entrance of his command post. Hastily the tribune from the Third Cyrenaica saluted. The boy could not be any older than nineteen or twenty.
“The legate sent me Sir,” the young staff officer said in a stiff, posh accent. “I am to show you your objective once we cross the Tigris.”
“Show me,” Fergus growled.
Following the young officer out of his command post, Fergus climbed up the earthen embankment that prevented the Tigris from flooding. On the top of the dyke he had a clear view of the wide, slow moving river. Along the water’s western bank, the first of the Roman assault boats were being floated and the cries and shouts of the engineers and work parties was clearly audible. For a moment the young tribune from the Third Cyrenaica gazed at the Tigris in silence. Across the water the massive, imposing walls of Ctesiphon looked very similar to Seleucia. It was Fergus’s first look at the Parthian capital and for a moment, he allowed his eyes to linger. But beyond the stone walls and huge towers there was not much else to see. Raising his hand, the staff officer from the Third suddenly pointed at a cluster of buildings on the eastern bank, that lay a mile or so outside the city walls. In the harbour of what looked like a suburb of Ctesiphon, Fergus caught sight of a small man-made harbour crowded with Parthian fishing boats and transports. Amongst them Fergus could see figures moving about.
“See that settlement Sir,” the tribune said in his posh voice. “That is one of the suburbs of Ctesiphon and an important harbour for the river traffic on the Tigris. That is your objective. You are to lead your men across the river and take the settlement and its river harbour. The legate wants you to capture those boats intact. So, you will have to move fast,” the staff officer said. “Under no circumstances are the Parthians allowed to escape or burn their boats. We are going to need them afterwards. Is that clear Sir?”
“Any idea of the resistance that we are likely to face?” Fergus growled, as he studied the suburb across the water.
“No,” the young staff officer replied. “But judging from the weak resistance we have encountered so far, I wouldn’t say it will be a problem.”
And with that the tribune from the Third saluted smartly and turned away leaving Fergus standing on the top of the dyke gazing out across the Tigris.
***
As the Roman trumpet rang out Fergus turned to Britannicus. “Take half the men and land them south of the harbour,” he snapped, speaking in his native Briton language. “I will take the remainder and land north of the settlement. We will meet you in the middle. Treat the civilians with respect but have a plan to kill everyone you meet. And Britannicus, make sure that the Parthians don’t burn those boats. The legate says we are going to need them.”
“Yes Sir. Good luck Sir,” Britannicus said hastily, in an excited voice. Then he was hastening away along the top of the earthen dyke, shouting orders to his men. Fergus watched him go. Then he scrambled down the side of the dyke, and with his staff and escort following, he scrambled into a boat. All along the western banks of the Tigris the nine hundred odd men of the First cohort of the Fourth Legion were surging down the side of the dyke and piling into their assault boats. As he pushed his way towards the stern and found himself a place right up at the prow, Fergus tensely turned to gaze at the eastern bank. There was no visible sign of the enemy, but they had to be out there. Surely, they would make a stand in defence of their capital. In the river, two legionaries stripped to the waist, were standing in the water holding the flat-bottomed boat in position against the weak current. They were the last to scramble aboard, as the legionaries manning the oars in the packed assault craft began to row out into the river.
Tensely Fergus turned to look downstream where the score of Roman assault craft were rowing furiously for t
he opposite bank. The boats were packed with heavily armed legionaries. The soldier’s shields, body armour and helmets gleamed in the morning sunlight and the creak and groan of timbers and the splash of the oars in the river were the only noise. Out on the river there was no sign of enemy ships. On the extreme left flank, Fergus caught sight of the proud standard of the First cohort. That was Britannicus’s boat and he was doing as ordered, leading half the assault force towards the south of the settlement.
“Faster, faster,” a centurion at the back of the boat shouted, as he turned on the rowers manning the oars.
From one of the neighbouring boats a sudden warning cry rent the relative calm, and the next moment a fountain of water shot up into the air in between the Roman boats. Fergus gasped in shock. Another warning cry and suddenly he caught sight of a dark projectile arching towards them. The Parthian projectile landed in the river with a great splash, so close that it drenched some of the rowers.
“Fuck,” Fergus swore as quickly he turned to stare at the eastern bank. The Parthian catapults were beginning to find their range.
“Move it. Move,” the centurion at the back screamed at his men. In the packed assault craft, the stoic legionaries, unable to move, remained silent as all stared tensely at the approaching river bank. If they were to be hit and sunk there would be no chance of rescue. The weight of their body armour would take them straight to the bottom of the river. In the river another fountain of water erupted, as a boat survived another near miss. Fergus growled in frustration as he tried to locate the Parthian catapults on the eastern bank, but he couldn’t see them.
“Row boys. Row. Fucking row,” the centurion screamed, as the officer grabbed a spear and began to push it into the river in a futile effort to make them go faster.
The eastern bank was getting closer. Out in the river two more fountains of water shot up into the air, as the huge rocks being hurled by the Parthian artillery slammed down into the Tigris. But so far, they had missed their targets. From the packed Roman boats, Fergus could hear shouts and cursing. The rowers were going full out as the small armada raced towards the shore. Then with a harsh grating noise the boat slid up onto the sandy bank, and with a great cry of relief the legionaries surged over the side, splashing into the shallow water. Fergus too leapt down into the water and as he did, he drew his gladius, Corbulo’s old sword from its sheath. Along the river bank to the north of the cluster of buildings, the remainder of the Roman boats too were coming into land. Hastily Fergus turned to look southwards along the river bank, but the buildings and the course of the river prevented him from seeing what had become of Britannicus and his men. Splashing through the water, he clambered up the earthen dyke, as along the bank his men were doing the same.
Beyond the dyke he caught sight of irrigated fields that separated the suburb from the massive walls of Ctesiphon, a mile away. The fields were covered with crops and they seemed deserted.
“Take your men around the edge of the village,” Fergus roared at a centurion. “Find and silence those catapults. Then re-join us at the harbour. Go.”
With a quick nod of acknowledgement, the officer turned and began shouting orders to his company. Fergus too hastened away, leading his remaining men towards the buildings. In the riverside suburb he could see nobody. The place looked completely deserted. Quickly the four hundred men with him, began to form a battle-line centred on their companies and squads and led by their officers. The pace of their advance however slowed as they approached the settlement. Where were the Parthians? Was it really going to be so easy Fergus thought, as his wary eyes darted from one building to the next. In the eerie silence the crunch, clank and creak of the Roman legionary’s armour and boots was the only noise. Warily, clutching their shields and spears and led by their officers, the Romans began to enter and fan out into the suburb as they headed for the harbour. Fergus paused at a cross roads between two streets and was about to turn to his cornicen, when ahead of him a Roman voice suddenly shouted a warning.
The next moment all hell seemed to break out. From doorways, windows and the roofs of the buildings around them, a barrage of stones, arrows, roof tiles and stone slingers bullets came raining down on the Roman troops in the streets. Cries and screams rent the still morning air, as Fergus caught a glimpse of the furious, screaming defenders, who had appeared from their hiding places. In the road ahead, a legionary sank to his knees and collapsed sideways into the street, bleeding heavily from a face wound. Another soldier staggered backwards against a wall, dropped his shield and reached out to clutch his throat, which had been torn open and was spewing forth blood. Fergus too cried out in pain and shock as something struck him hard on his shoulder armour and bounced away. Instinctively he went crashing sideways into the relative cover of a wall. His shoulder ached but there was no time to feel the pain. Around him, the quiet streets had turned into a shrieking, bloody ambush. A few legionaries were lying motionless in the street as the hail of projectiles showed no sign of abating.
“House to house, no prisoners,” Fergus roared over the din, as his eyes darted from doorway to roof top. “House to house. Clear the fucking street.”
There was no way of knowing whether his men had heard or understood him. With a savage, furious cry Fergus turned and kicked down the flimsy door into the nearest building. Then he was into the dark building. In a room immediately to his right, a shape seemed to come at him and without thinking, Fergus stabbed him, feeling the steel slice into flesh, as behind him his staff came piling into the home. Fergus was rewarded by a deep groan. In the dim light he saw a man stagger backwards, still clutching a small knife. The man had no armour or helmet and looked like a civilian. Ahead down a short corridor, a flight of stone steps seemed to lead up onto the roof of the building. Storming up it, Fergus emerged into the clear bright daylight and was just in time to see a young man, no more than a boy, whirling a sling and targeting a squad of legionaries in the street below. As the boy turned and caught sight of Fergus his face went pale with fright and shock. Silently and swiftly Fergus lunged and before the boy could react, he sent the slinger flying and yelling down into the street below, where he landed with a painful thud.
In the house below a woman was screaming in a high-pitched wailing voice. Startled, Fergus felt something whizz past his head. Turning to stare down the street, he saw a girl and a boy crouching on the neighbouring roof. The pair were hurling roof tiles at the legionaries in the street below. Hastily Fergus retreated down the stairs and as he did he met his cornicen, standard bearer and legionary escort. The woman’s wailing had abruptly come to an end and a large pool of blood was spreading out onto the dirt floor.
“We go house to house,” Fergus roared as he pushed past his men. “Kill everyone we meet until the resistance ends. Follow me.”
Emerging into the daylight Fergus was met with screaming, shrieking chaos. In the street across from him, a squad of legionaries were pressed up against a wall, pinned down, as they sought shelter from the barrage of missiles. Further down the street of terraced buildings, another squad of eight men were kicking down doors and entering the homes. Inside the buildings the furious shouts and yells from the Roman legionaries were clearly audible, as they savagely and brutally silenced the occupants. Pressing himself up against the wall of the house, Fergus gazed across the street at the squad of legionaries who were pinned down by a hail of missiles. And as he stared at them, a furious woman, clad completely in black, came rushing out of a doorway holding a rock with both hands. The woman seemed intent on using it to crush a soldier’s head but before she could get close, she was brought down by a Roman spear. With a grunt Fergus leapt away from the wall and went sprinting across the intersection and straight at the doorway of a building. And as he did so, something struck his helmet nearly knocking him off balance.
With a savage cry he launched himself at the door and went straight through, crashing on into the hallway beyond. As he recovered his balance and his sword swept around him in a d
efensive reaction, he saw that he was alone. Behind him he heard shouts and the sound of running boots. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the building, he saw that he was in a rich man’s home. Frescoes adorned the walls and comfortable looking couches and a fine wooden table furnished the main room. In a corner an oil lamp was still alight, and the smell of incense hung heavy in the air. The home seemed deserted, but as he caught sight of the stairs leading up onto the roof, he saw that they had been barricaded with broken pieces of furniture and rocks. Above him he could hear shouting in a foreign language and the thud of feet.
“Burn the house down,” Fergus yelled as he turned to his men, who had followed him into the house. “Set them on fire. If they refuse to surrender they shall burn.”
Emerging out into the street, Fergus saw that the Roman squad who had been pinned down had managed to extricate themselves and were busy kicking down doors and going house to house. The hail of missiles too seemed to have died down, but not the shrieking, wailing and screaming. Behind him he heard voices cursing and then the unmistakeable crackle and roar of fire.
“We keep moving,” Fergus cried out. “We need to reach the harbour. The Parthians are not to be allowed to destroy those boats.”
Taking a quick peek down the street, he darted out of the shelter of the doorway and went racing down the street in the direction of the harbour. Crouching in the shade of a wall, Fergus’s eyes darted from doorway to roof top, as he waited for his men to catch up with him. From the street, down which he’d just come, thick black smoke was pouring out of the doorway and windows of the rich man’s house. And as he turned to stare at the burning building, he heard a heartfelt shriek and a man tumbled from the roof overcome by the smoke. A moment later another man, his body alight, came staggering out of the doorway into the street only to collapse and die with the hungry flames eating away at his body.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 37
